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ABOUT   OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


Well!  what  about  them. 


ABOUT 

OLD   STORY-TELLERS 


OF  HOW 
AND    WHEN  THEY  LIVED, 

AND 

WHAT  STORIES   THEY   TOLD. 


BY 


DONALD    G.  MITCHELL, 

AUTHOR   OF    "reveries   OF   A    BACHELOR,"    "  MY    FARM 
OF   EDGEWOOD,"    ETC.,   ETC. 


NEW   YORK: 

SCRIBNER,   ARMSTRONG,   &    CO. 

1878. 


Copyright,  1877, 
By  SCRIBNER,  ARMSTRONG,  &  CO, 


Elgctrotyped  and  Printed  by 

Ra7id,  Avery,  and  Company, 

117  Franklin  Street, 

Boston . 


^y 


TO  THE  SMALL  COMPANY 

AT  EDGEWOOD, 

AND    TO    THE  LARGER  COMPANY 

WHOM    THEY  MEET 

ONCE  A    MONTH 

OVER    THE  PLEASANT  PAGES  OF  "ST.  NICHOLAS. 

THIS  LITTLE  BOOK 

IS  AFFECTIONA  TEL  V  DEDICA  TED 

BY  THEIR   EARNEST   WELL-WISHER, 

D.   G.  M, 


PREFACE. 

For  the  Grown-up  People. 

T  MAKE  no  doubt  that  elderly  people  will 
browse  at  this  booklet,  in  the  shops,  if  no- 
where else  ;  testing  what  flavor  it  may  have,  and 
if  it  will  be  safe  reading  for  Ned,  or  Tom,  or  Bell, 
or  such  other  son  or  grandchild  as  may  be  pull- 
ing at  old  heart-strings  for  some  token  of  kindly 
feeling,  to  mark  the  holidays. 

For  all  such  gracious  elderly  ones,  I  shall  say  a 
frank  word  here  at  the  beginning  about  the  pur- 
port of  the  book,  and  of  the  reasons  why  it  has 
taken  the  shape  it  has,  and  of  what  good  I  hope 
it  may  do  to  the  youngsters  who  thumb  its  pages 
and  study  its  pictures. 

In  the  matter  of  books,  as  in  the  world,  I 
believe  in  old  friends,  and  don't  think  they  should 

vii 

ivi527928 


vill  PREFACE. 

be  laid  away  upon  the  shelf  without  good  cause  ; 
and  age  is  hardly  cause  enough. 

In  short,  I  must  confess  a  lurking  fondness  for 
those  good  old-fashioned  stories  which  were  cur- 
rent forty  years  ago,  —  and  some  of  them  maybe 
a  hundred  years  ago,  —  written  in  good  straight- 
forward English,  with  good  straightforward  in- 
tent. I  cannot  get  over  or  outlive  the  zest  with 
which  I  first  pored  over  the  story  of  "  Lazy  Law- 
rence," or  listened  to  it,  or  to  that  other  of  ''  Bar- 
ring Out,"  intoned  by  lips  on  whose  utterance  I 
hung  entranced.  And  if  Miss  Edgeworth  won 
such  yearning,  what  is  to  be  said  of  ''  Robinson 
Crusoe,"  —  of  ''Gulliver,"  —  of  "The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield?"  Are  these  outlived?  —  or  "The 
Arabian  Nights,"  or  Grimm's  Stories,  or  John 
Bunyan's  "Pilgrim"? 

In  my  own  household  at  least,  as  the  evenings 
have  grown  long  in  winter,  and  the  fire-play  has 
thrown  its  gleams  over  wall  and  floor,  I  have 
sought  to  keep  alive  a  regard  for  those  old- new 
books  ;  and  have  endeavored  to  kindle  and  fasten 
interest  in  them,  by  talk  of  their  authors,  and  of 
the  times  in  which  they  lived,  and  of  the  circum- 
stances under  which    they  wrote,  —  so   that   the 


PREFACE.  ix 

Stories  should  be  planted  in  the  minds  of  the 
young  people  —  not  as  isolated  bits  of  fancy  hav- 
ing no  historic  surroundings,  but  as  growing  out 
of  definite  epochs,  and  taking  color  from  them, 
and  in  their  way  illustrating  them.  And  I  have 
sought  by  such  a  mingling  of  historic  and  bio- 
graphic tints  with  the  thread  of  the  stories,  to 
connect  them  ineffaceably  with  the  times  and 
places  of  their  production,  and  with  the  person- 
ality of  the  authors,  so  as  to  make  them  way- 
marks,  as  it  were,  in  any  future  and  further  study 
of  history  or  of  geography. 

Out  of  this  effort  and  intention,  has  grown  the 
subject  matter  of  this  little  book,  which  is  planned 
not  alone  for  a  pleasurable  beguilement  of  time 
in  reviving  memories  of  old  stories,  but  for  carry- 
ing effective  knowledge  of  dates  and  places  and 
conditions  which  young  people  are  blamable  for 
not  knowing,  and  which  if  they  come  to  know  by 
agreeable  coupling  of  them  with  happy  memories 
of  stories  told  at  night,  will  stick  all  the  faster  and 
firmer  in  memory. 

I  have  not  filled  out  my  intention  so  well  or  so 
richly  as  I  could  have  hoped  to  do  on  begin- 
ning; but,  such  as  it  is,  I  hope  the  little  book  will 


PREFACE. 


meet  kindly  greeting  from  many  —  scattered  up 
and  down  the  country  —  who  have  kindred  loves 
for  the  work  and  the  memory  of  the  old  story- 
tellers. 


CONTENTS. 


FAGB 

PREFACE. 

For  the  Grown-up  People vii 

I.  — INTRODUCTION. 

Words  to  start  with  for  Young  Folks       ....  17 

II.— FIRST  PRINTERS  AND  THEIR  HOMES. 

The  Dutchmen 27 

John  Gutenberg  .........  29 

The  City  of  Strasburg 32 

Old  English  Printers 39 

III.  — THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

Who  wrote  the  Stories  ? 42 

The   Vizier''s  Daughter 45 

Aladdin  and  his  Lamp 50 

A  Great  Traveller 58 

IV.  — GOLDSMITH'S  WORK. 

A    Vicar  and  his  Family      ..,,,,.  73 

Mr.  Burchell  and  the  Squire  ......  76 

What  happened  in  Prison 82 

Poor  Goldy 85 

His  Family  and  Death 91 

v.  — GULLIVER  SWIFT. 

Some  Queer  Little  People 96 

Some  Monstrous  People 103 

Who  was  Gulliver  ? 108 

Dean  Swiff s  Love ill 


Xii  CONTENTS. 


VI.  — AN  IRISH  STORY-TELLER. 

Who  was  She  ?      .         .         .         .         .        .        .        .  115 

Her  Stones 117 

Forester 124 

VIL  — TWO  FRENCH  FRIENDS. 

Burst  of  Revolution .  1 29 

Days  of  Terror 134 

The  Guillotine    .     ■■■. 1 r- 137 

Taul  and  Virginia 139 

The  Siberian  Wanderer 143 

VIIL  — FAIRY  REALM. 

The  Grimm  Brothers 149 

The  Gold  Bird 154 

More  Qiceer  Beasts  and  People 158 

The  Flower  with  a  Pearl 162 

IX.  — A  SCOTCH  MAGICIAN. 

Foanhoe 166 

The  Tourtiament 169 

A  Castle 172 

Rebecca 177 

Walter  Scott's  Home 182 

How  and  When  He  wrote 189 

His  Life  and  Ways 192 

X.  — ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 

Fifty  Pounds  Reward 198 

The  Culprit's  Work 201 

His  Family 204 

The  Book 208 

Good-by,  Robinson! 215 

XL  — HOW  A  TINKER  WROTE  A  NOVEL. 

Travels  of  Christian 219 

Great-Heart 227 

John  Bicnyan 232 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

"  Now,  tell  us  all  about  them  " Frontispiece. 

Vignette 17 

Uncle  Ned 19 

Once  upon  a  Time 22 

Hark! 24 

07te 26 

Trying  the  Type 30 

The  Gutenberg  Momiment  at  Strasburg 33 

Strasburg  Cathedral         .........  36 

Vignette 38 

Vignette 41 

Vizier  and  Daughter 46 

Roc's  Egg 57 

Street  of  Bagdad 60 

Roc 62 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea    . 67 

Ruined  Temple  at  Bagdad o        .        .  71 

Vignette 72 

Mrs.  Primrose'' s  Fine  Girls    ........  74 

Mrs.  Primrose's  ''Style''' T] 

Going  to  Prison 81 

Portraits  of  Oliver  Goldsmith 86 

Goldsmith's  Lodgings 88 


XIV  ILL  US  TRA  TIONS. 

PAGE 

Goldy,  Johnson,  and  Bosxvell 93 

Six  Inches  High      ...                  08 

Gulliver  on  Exhibition -  .         .99 

Gulliver  kills  a  Rat 107 

Dean  Swift 1 1 1 

A  Brobdingnag  Book       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  114 

Basket -Woman .  ri8 

Limerick  Gloves       .,,..,.....  122 

Edgeworth  House 123 

"  Forester " 1 26 

The  Bastille . 


'         •         •  133 

Charlotte  Cor  day 136 

Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre 140 

Paul  and  Virginia 142 

The  Wanderer     ...........  147 

A   Trio     ............  153 

The  Three  Musicians 159 

Little  Red-Cap 160 

The  Elves 161 

Jorindel  touches  the  Cage 164 

Vignette 165 

Swineherd  and  Wamba 168 

A  Strange  Knight 170 

Rebecca  and  the  Messenger 171 

Front  de  Boeuf  and  the  Jew 173 

Cedric  disguised  as  Priest 175 

Rebecca's  Trial 179 

The  Champion 181 

The  Chair,  Coat,  and  Cane 187 

The  Boy  Walter  Scott 192 

Daniel  Defoe        ...........  199 

House  where  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  was  written       ....  207 

Robinson  Crusoe  . 209 

Saving  Traps  from  the  Wreck 216 


ILL  USTRA  TIONS.  XV 

PAGE 

Robinson  at  Home 218 

Passion  and  Patience 223 

Escape  from  Doubting  Castle 226 

John  Bmiyan 233 

Bedford  Jail        ...                 235 

Bunyan^s  Tomb 236 


I. 


INTRODUCTION, 


Words  to  start  with  for  Young  Folks. 


T 


^HE  coach  had 
come  in  at  half- 
past  four  by  the  old 
clock  that  stood  in 
the  corner  of  the 
hall,  and  which  had 
a  dumpling-like  face 
of  a  moon  that  slid 
itself  into  sight,  by 
halves  and  quarters,  in  a  most  won- 
derful way.  Half-past  four  of  the 
afternoon  it  was,  else  we  should 
not  have  been  there  to  see,  —  nor 
to  see  the  coach,  which  was  another 
wonderful  thing  to  behold  ;  a  round-bodied  coach,  hung 
upon  enormous  leathern  thorough-braces,  on  which  it 
went  see-sawing  over  the  bars  upon  the  hill-sides  of 
country  roads.  There  was  a  door  in  the  middle,  with  a 
miniature  coach  painted  upon  its  panel,  with  horses  in 

17 


1 8  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

full  trot  (making  faster  time  than  the  coach  ever  did  in 
earnest),  and  over  the  painting  was  the  legend,  "  Eclipse 
Line."  There  was  a  rival  "Express  Line;"  but  the 
"  Eclipse  "  was  our  favorite.  It  had  the  best  horses, 
Harry  said  (he  knew,  Harry  did) ;  and  the  driver  always 
saved  a  place  upon  the  coach-roof,  back  of  his  seat,  and 
this  was  what  the  "  Express "  driver  never  did,  but 
bundled  us  inside,  with  the  women.  Therefore  we  pat- 
ronized the  "  Eclipse  "  line. 

A  great  gulf  of  leather,  behind  the  -coach,  received 
the  trunks,  which  were  finished  in  that  day  with  hairy 
skins.  Will  Warner  (of  our  school)  had  one  which  he 
vowed  was  covered  with  a  leopard-skin  :  it  was  certainly 
spotted.  Then,  under  the  driver's  seat  of  the  "  Eclipse  " 
was  another  cavernous  recess  for  the  carpet-bags  and 
small  parcels ;  and  again,  upon  the  coach-roof,  were  hat- 
boxes  and  band-boxes,  kept  from  sliding  off  the  fearful 
height  by  a  little  iron  railing  of  two  bars,  against  which, 
when  the  coach-top  was  free,  —  in  vacation  time,  —  we 
planted  our  feet,  and,  with  back  to  back,  went  swaying 
and  rollicking  over  the  turnpike  roads.  There  are  no 
such  coach-loads  now.  I  think  there  are  no  such 
coaches.  The  Troy  coach,  known  of  hotel  jDCople  and 
of  overland  passengers,  approaches  it ;  but  I  am  strongly 
of  opinion  that  the  old  New-England  stage-coach  had  a 
dignity  and  a  character  of  its  own,  quite  unapproachable 
by  any  vehicle  of  these  times.  What  ponderous  cur- 
tains, with  their  odor  of  varnish  and  paint !  These  all 
were  buttoned  close  upon  that  December  afternoon ; 
and  the  sturdy  wheels  had  such  accumulation  of  half- 
frozen  mud  over  them,  and  around  them,  as  to  make 
them   strongly  resemble  the  richly  embossed    chariot- 


INTRODUCTION. 


19 


wheels  that  were  figured  in  our  book  of  Roman  Anti- 
quities. 

And  it  is  for  us,  on  that  day,  a  triumphal  chariot. 
We  know  what  that  queer-shaped  box  means  upon  the 
coach-top,  —  not  long  enough,  Harry  hints,  for  bow  and 
arrows,  which  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  ;  but  there  is 
room  in  it  for  a  Noah's  ark,  and  balls,  and  battledoor, 
and  a  "  Boys'  Own  Book,"  and  lots  beside.  For  uncle 
Ned  never  makes 
his  Christmas  visit 
without  a  good  stock 
of  such  things. 

And  uncle  Ned 
is  in  the  coach. 
We  see  his  earnest, 
kindly  face,  and  his 
white  locks  floating 
round  it  like  a  glory, 
before  we  have 
guessed  at  all  the 
riches  that  must 
lie  packed  away  in 
the  Christmas-box 
on  the  roof.  He 
had  a  way  of  cud- 
dhng  us  youngsters 

in  his  lap  we  never  forgot.  There  was  aunt  Effie  too, 
with  her  queer  old  frontlet  of  curls,  which  she  would 
persist  in  wearing  —  though  it  would  never  compare 
with  her  own  sheen  of  silvery  hair  (we  caught  sight  of 
her  sometimes  in  her  chamber  —  so  we  knew  about 
that).     She  was  a  goodly,  fat  woman, — was  aunt  Effie. 


20  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS, 

Harry  said  he  loved  fat  women.  Yet  he  has  married 
since  a  woman  as  thin  as  a  ghost :  this  is  the  way  boyish 
opinions  get  overset  in  the  hurly-burly  of  life. 

But  aunt  Effie  was  as  good  as  she  was  large.  Every 
pat  of  her  hand  on  our  heads  had  the  tender  weight  of 
all  her  heart  in  it.  Not  given  to  many  words  :  perhaps 
because  uncle  Ned  took  all  the  talking  to  himself,  for  he 
fairly  bubbled  over  with  it. 

We  wondered  if  it  was  aunt  Effie's  way  at  home,  by 
the  privacy  of  her  own  fireside,  to  interject,  as  she  did, 
into  the  swift  current  of  uncle  Ned's  talk  her  approving 
or  questioning  "^^waRDE!"  I  have  tried  to  make 
the  types  show,  with  their  capitals,  how  she  uttered  it ; 
but  even  the  capitals,  rising  in  crescendo  (you  must  look 
for  that  word  in  your  Latin  Dictionary),  don't  begin  to 
figure  the  droll  effect  of  her  "^^waRDE  !  " 

Did  these  two  dear  old  people  ever  love,  —  in  the  way 
of  the  story-books,  —  we  wondered  }  Was  there  any 
billing  and  cooing  }  Had  she  ever  a  delicate  little  waist 
and  golden  ringlets,  that  ''enraptured  his  regard  "  }  At 
this  date,  I  don't  doubt  it, —  however  much  we  all  doubted 
it  then. 

They  were  childless  people ;  perhaps  that  was  the 
reason  the  big  Christmas-box  always  came  on  time,  and 
they  with  it.  Aunt  Efifie,  with  all  her  love-pattings 
bestowed  here  and  there,  never  failed  to  follow  up  the 
motions  of  uncle  Ned,  with  a  beaming  eye  ;  and  he, 
good  soul,  never  failed  to  look  sharply  after  aunt 
Effie's  comfort,  or  to  take  grace  or  caution  from  her 
"  ^i^WARDE  !  "  as  she  happened  to  pronounce  it. 

Well  —  these  good  old  childless  souls  had  come  to  us, 
as  I  said,  on  this  December  day  (the  one  before  Christ- 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

mas),  in  the  coach,  which,  with  its  rime  of  mud  upon  the 
wheels,  was  so  Hke  a  Roman  triumphal  chariot ;  and 
the  Christmas-box  (big  enough  for  any  thing,  except  the 
coveted  bow  and  arrows)  had  been  bestowed  away  for 
the  morrow' s  opening,  and  a  royal  supper  had  been 
served,  with  a  steaming  dish  of  oysters  from  the  creek 
near  by,  and  a  fire  had  been  kindled  as  early  as  three  in 
the  afternoon  in  the  great  south  sitting-room  (Frank 
and  I  bringing  in  the  back-logs) ;  and  by  seven  or  eight 
o'clock  we  were  all  seated  around  it,  waiting  for  uncle 
Ned  to  begin. 

He  always  told  us  a  story  on  these  visits.  He  always 
had  the  same  chair  in  the  corner  ;  and  when  he  demurred 
or  halted  at  the  start,  or  said  he  was  old  and  rusty, 
aunt  Effie,  from  her  corner,  broke  out  upon  him  with 
''^'^waRDE!" 

With  that,  he  began  ;  since  the  first  story-telling  of  his 
I  could  remember  —  always  with  **  Once  upon  a  time." 
I  told  Kitty,  — who  was  a  roly-poly  dumpling  of  a  cousin, 
but  very  nice,  —  that  it  would  be  so  now  ;  and  so  it 
was. 

There  is  a  delicious  vagueness  about  "  once  upon  a 
time,"  that  I  think  takes  hold  upon  young  listeners,  — 
if  it  does  not  upon  the  elderly  ones.  If  we  have  an  old 
date  in  full,  straightway  the  thing  becomes  historic,  and. 
is  brought  to  fast  anchorage  outside  of  the  shadowy 
realm  into  which  it  is  so  delightful  —  on  Christmas  Eve 
—  to  wander.  Again,  if  the  story  have  its  start-point 
a  few  years  ago,  or  a  few  months  ago,  it  brings  up  the 
thought  of  newspapers  and  news-mongers,  from  all 
whose  note-takings  we  cast  loose  delightsomely  as  we 
drift  out  over  that  misty  and  indeterminate  current  of 


22 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


gone-by   years,   which  is    shadowed  forth  darkly  in 
"once  upon  a  time." 

Once  upon  a  time,  then 


Once  upon  a  Time. 


But,  bless  you,  I  am 
not  going  to  tell  Uncle 
Ned's  story  here  and 
now.  I  didn't  prom- 
ise it ;  and  I  have  only 
led  you  along  towards 
this  pitch  of  expecta- 
tion to  show  how  much 
the  conditions  under 
which  a  story  is  told 
serve  to  fix  it  in  mind. 
We  always  thought 
of  Christmas  and  big 
fires,  and  the  coach  coming  up,  —  sometimes  it  was  a 
sleigh,  to  be  sure,  —  and  the  gifts  and  the  little  listeners, 
when  we  thought  of  Uncle  Ned's  stories.  And  I  think 
his  stories  —  however  humdrum  they  were  (and  I  must 
confess,  looking  back  upon  them  now,  that  some  of  them 
were  terribly  humdrum),  were  always  the  sweeter  and 
the  better  for  the  surroundings  under  which  they  were 
toJd  ;  and  that  we  relish  the  memory  of  them  now  far 
more,  because  we  knew  the  surroundings,  and  knew 
him,  and  all  about  him,  and  how  kindly  his  meaning 
was,  and  how  aunt  Effie  pushed  him  up  to  the  work 
of  it. 

Well,  I  am  to  tell  you  now  about  other  story-tellers 
not  known  in  our  family  only,  but  known  all  over  the 
world,  far  as  English  books  ever  go  ;  and  I  want  you  to 
understand  and  remember  some  of  the  circumstances 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

under  which  they  told  their  stories  ;  and  who  helped 
them  on  by  calling  out  to  them,  and  how  they  looked, 
and  in  what  times  they  lived,  and  why  they  told  such 
stories  as  they  did. 

And  I  want  to  tell  you  this  not  only  because  a  knowl- 
edge of  it  will  interest  you  more  in  the  work  of  the  old 
story-tellers,  but  because  they  were  famous  men  and 
women,  about  whom  you  ought  to  know. 

It  is  not  much  matter  to  learn  if  our  uncle  Ned  came 
up  on  a  coach,  because  his  stories  never  reached  very 
far,  and  he  was  not  a  man  about  whom  the  great  world 
cares  to  know  very  much,  —  though  they  puzzle  them- 
selves to  learn  trifling  things  about  men  not  half  so  hon- 
est, and  true,  and  kind  as  he.  But  when  it  comes  to 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  who  told  a  story  in  such  a  way  that 
all  the  world  read  it,  and  French  and  German  and  Ital- 
ian people  turned  it  into  their  own  language,  — why,  it  is 
well  for  you  to  know  if  there  was  an  aunt  Efifie  in  his 
case,  and  stage-coaches  ;  and  if  he  lived  in  New  Eng- 
land, or  in  Ireland  ;  and  what  children  he  had,  if  any ; 
and  what  became  of  him  ;  and  where  he  lies  buried. 

So  of  Jonathan  Swift,  another  man  I  shall  have  to 
tell  you  about,  who  was  a  stronger  man,  but  not  half  so 
kind-hearted  ;  and  was  remembered  by  a  great  many 
people  with  a  shudder ;  and  yet  who  told  a  story  so  witty 
and  so  winning,  about  certain  queer  little  folks,  —  not 
much  larger  than  your  thumb,  — that  you  ought  to  know 
about  him,  and  remember  what  his  life  was,  when  you 
read  what  he  wrote. 

Then,  there  are  certain  stories  which  in  their  way 
are  very  charming,  about  which  we  can't  say  positively 
just  when  they  were  written.     But  we  can  learn  when 


24 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


they  were  first  made  generally  known,  and  how  they 
were  handed  down  from  year  to  year,  and  from  genera- 
tion to  generation. 

Of  such  are  the  fairy-stories  belonging  to  all  coun- 
tries, and  to  the  books  of  all  nations,  —  stories  to  which 
children  listen  always  with  such  open-eyed  wonder. 


Do  the  old  people  tell  you  there  is  harm  in  them  .-* 
Well,  it  is  a  harm  that  must  be  met  and  conquered. 
We  cannot  root  them  out.  The  House  that  Jack  built, 
it  is  hard  to  pull  down.  The  gossips  will  be  gossips. 
The  evening  shadows  will  throw  grotesque  lines  on  the 
greensward,  that  children  will  change  into  queer  shapes. 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

And  while  we  tell  of  them,  and  of  the  colors  which 
story-tellers  have  put  upon  these  strange  shapes  of 
unreal  things,  we  will  try  and  pluck  all  the  harm  out 
of  them,  by  treating  them  as  we  would  treat  any  other 
unreal  shadows  of  things  which  are  actual. 

Those  fairy-stories  which  have  held  their  ground 
longest  and  best  have  almost  always  some  good  com- 
mon-sense point  in  them  ;  and  in  no  one  that  I  can  call 
to  mind,  do  indolence  and  conceit  win  greater  rewards 
than  industry ;  or  cunnmg  and  folly  gam  the  battle  over 
straightforward  honesty. 

Apollyon  is  a  great,  shining  fellow  irt  Bunyan's  **  Pil- 
grim's Progress ; "  but  the  point  of  Christian's  sword 
finds  out  the  weak  places  in  his  harness  of  iron ;  and 
under  Great-Heart  (which  is  a  capital  name  for  a  hero), 
he  goes  down  altogether,  and  is  heard  of  no  more. 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood  may  be  eaten  up  by  the 
wolf  who  has  put  on  her  grandmother's  cap ;  but  the 
little  Red  Riding  Hoods  who  are  left  will  look  all 
the  sharper  on  those  who  are  full  of  professions,  and 
not  judge  people  by  their  caps,  and  not  believe  the  lying 
words  of  the  strangers  they  meet  upon  the  high-roads. 

Such  patient,  quiet,  steadfast  toil  as  that  of  Cinder- 
ella, is  apt  to  bring  to  those  who  are  not  fagged  by  it, 
and  do  not  give  it  up,  the  most  splendid  of  luck  — 
slipper  or  no  slipper.  There  may  indeed  be  no  mar- 
riage to  a  prince ;  but  there  will  be  a  marriage  to  Duty, 
which  will  be  even  grander  and  happier  ;  for  Duty  is 
always  young,  and  never  gets  slip-shod,  and  never  has 
bad  humors. 

Now,  all  these  stories  about  which  I  have  undertaken 
to  tell   you  are  printed  stories  ;  and  if  there  had  been 


26  A  ROUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

no  way  of  printing  them,  you  would  never  have  heard 
of  them  or  of  the  lesson  of  them  ;  and  it  is  for  this 
reason  that  I  open  my  budget  about  the  story-tellers, 
by  saying  something  concerning  the  man  who  invented 
printing,  and  who,  if  he  did  not  print  the  first  book,  cer- 
tainly printed  the  first  Bible. 

You  must  not  count  upon  great  adventures  and  very 
extraordinary  things  as  happening  in  all  the  chapters 
of  this  book :  I  dare  say  you  will  think  some  matters 
I  have  to  talk  about,  very  dull  matters ;  but  I  believe 
all  the  things  I  shall  tell  you  will  be  worth  your  knowing, 
and  will  help  your  relish  for  the  reading  of  the  larger 
books  which  I  shall  speak  of.  You  know  we  can't  count 
upon  a  sunny  day  for  every  one  of  our  summer  picnics, 
nor  always  reckon  upon  a  company  of  eager  listeners 
for  the  stories  we  have  to  tell :  it  is  very  much  to  count 
on  one. 


II. 

FIRST    PRINTERS   AND    THEIR    HOMES. 
The   Duichmeii, 

IN  the  year  1420  there  was  living  in  the  city  of 
Haarlem  an  old  gentleman,  who  kept  the  keys  of 
the  cathedral,  and  who  used,  after  dinner,  to  walk  in  the 
famous  wood,  that  up  to  this  time  is  growing  just  with- 
out the  city  walls.  One  day,  while  walking  there,  he 
found  a  very  smooth  bit  of  beech-bark,  on  which  —  as 
he  was  a  handy  man  with  his  knife  —  he  cut  several  let- 
ters so  plainly  and  neatly,  that  after  his  return  home  he 
stamped  them  upon  paper,  and  gave  the  paper  to  his 
boy  as  a  **copy."  After  this,  seeing  that  the  thing  had 
been  neatly  done,  the  old  gentleman,  whose  name  was 
Lawrence  Coster,  fell  to  thinking  of  what  might  be 
done  with  such  letters  cut  in  wood.  By  blackening 
them  with  ink,  he  made  black  stamps  upon  paper ;  and 
by  dint  of  much  thinkmg  and  much  working,  he  came, 
in  time,  to  the  stamping  of  whole  broadsides  of  letters, 
—  which  was  really  printing. 

But  before  he    succeeded  in  doing  this  well,  he  had 
found  it  necessary  to  try  many  experiments,  and  to  take 

27 


28  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

into  his  employ  several  apprentices.  He  did  his  work 
very  secretly,  and  told  all  of  his  apprentices  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  trials  he  was  making.  But  a  dishonest  one 
among  them,  after  a  time,  ran  off  from  Holland  into 
Germany,  carrying  with  him  a  great  many  of  the  old 
gentleman's  wooden  blocks,  and  entire  pages  of  a  book 
which  he  was  about  to  print. 

This  is  the  story  that  is  told  by  an  old  Dutch  writer, 
who  was  president  of  Haarlem  College,  and  who  printed 
his  account  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  after  Lawrence 
was  robbed.  He  says  he  had  the  story  from  the  lips 
of  most  respectable  old  citizens,  who  had  heard  it  from 
their  fathers ;  and,  furthermore,  he  says  that  he  had  a 
teacher  in  his  young  days,  who  had  known,  long  before, 
an  old  servant  of  Lawrence  Coster's ;  and  this  servant 
would  burst  into  tears  whenever  he  spoke  of  the  way 
in  which  his  poor  master  was  robbed,  and  so  lost  the 
credit  of  his  discovery. 

The  Dutch  writers  believe  this  story,  and  hint  that 
the  runaway  apprentice  was  John  Faust,  or  John  Guten- 
berg;  but  the  Germans  justly  say  there  is  no  proof  of 
this.  It  is  certain,  however,  that  there  was  a  Lawrence 
{Custos,  or  Keeper,  of  the  cathedral),  who  busied  himself 
with  stamping  letters,  and  with  engraving.  His  statue  is 
on  the  market-place  in  Haarlem,  and  his  rough-looking 
books  are, — some  of  them,  —  now  in  the  "State  House" 
of  Haarlem.  They  are  dingy,  and  printed  with  bad  ink, 
and  seem  to  have  been  struck  from  large  engraved 
blocks,  and  not  from  movable  types.  They  are  without 
any  date  ;  but  people  learned  in  such  matters  think  they 
belong  to  a  period  somewhat  earlier  than  any  book  of 
Faust,  or  of  Gutenberg,  who  are  commonly  called  the 
discoverers  of  printing. 


FIRST  PRINTERS  AND   THEIR  HOMES.         29 


John  Gutenberg, 

John  Gutenberg,  at  the  very  time  when  this  old 
Dutchman  was  experimenting  with  his  blocks  in  Hol- 
land, was  also  working  in  his  way,  very  secretly,  in  a 
house  that  was  standing  not  many  years  ago  in  the 
ancient  city  of  Strasburg.  He  had  two  working  part- 
ners, who  were  bound  by  oath  not  to  reveal  the  secret 
of  the  arts  he  was  engaged  upon.  But  one  of  these 
partners  died  ;  and  upon  this,  his  heirs  claimed  a  right 
to  know  the  secrets  of  Qutenberg.  Gutenberg  refused  ; 
and  there  was  a  trial  of  the  case,  some  account  of  which 
was  discovered  more  than  three  hundred  years  after- 
ward in  an  old  tower  of  Strasburg. 

This  trial  took  place  in  the  year  1439.  Gutenburg 
was  not  forced  to  betray  his  secret ;  but  it  did  appear, 
from  the  testimony  of  the  witnesses;  that  he  was  occu- 
pied with  some  way  of  making  books  (or  manuscripts) 
cheaper  than  they  had  ever  been  made  before. 

But  Gutenberg  was  getting  on  so  poorly  at  Strasburg, 
and  lost  so  much  money  in  his  experiments,  that  he 
went  away  to  Mayence,  which  is  a  German  city  farther 
down  the  Rhine.  He  there  formed  a  partnership  with 
a  rich  silversmith  named  John  Faust,  who  took  an  oath 
of  secrecy,  and  supplied  him  with  money,  on  condition 
that  after  a  certain  time  it  should  be  repaid  to  him. 

Then  Gutenberg  set  to  work  in  earnest.  Some  ac- 
counts say  he  had  a  brother  who  assisted  him  ;  and  the 
Dutch  writers  think  this  brother  may  have  been  the 
robber  of  poor  Lawrence  Coster.  But  there  is  no  proof 
of  it ;  and  it  is  too  late  to  find  any  proof  now.     There 


^o 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


was  certainly  a  Peter  Schoffer,  a  scribe,  or  designer,  who 
worked  for  Gutenberg,  and  who  finished  up  his  first 
books  by  drawing  Hnes  around  the  pages,  and  making 
ornamental    initial    letters,  and    filling   up  gaps  in  the 


Trying  the  Type. 


printing.  This  Schoffer  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  and 
watched  Gutenberg  very  closely.  He  used  to  talk  over 
what  he  saw,  and  what^  he  thought,  with  Faust.  He 
told  Faust  he  could  contrive  better  types  than  Guten- 
berg was  using ;  and,   acting  on  his  hints,   Faust,  who 


FIRST  PRINTERS  AND    THEIR  HOMES.         3 1 

was  a  skilful  worker  in  metals,  run  types  in  a  mould ; 
and  these  were  probably  the  first  cast  types  ever  made. 
These  promised  so  well  that  Faust  determined  to  get 
rid  of  Gutenberg,  and  to  carry  on  the  business  with 
Schoffer  —  to  whom  he  gave  his  only  daughter  Chris- 
tine for  a  wife. 

Faust  called  on  Gutenberg  for  his  loan  shortly  after, 
which  Gutenberg  couldn't  pay ;  and  in  consequence  he 
had  to  give  up  to  Faust  all  his  tools,  his  presses,  and 
his  unfinished  work,  among  which  was  a  Bible  nearly 
two-thirds  completed.  This,  Faust  and  Schoffer  hurried 
through,  and  sold  as  a  manuscript.  They  sold  it  as  a 
manuscript,  because  manuscripts  brought  high  prices, 
and  because  if  it  were  known  that  this  Bible  was  made 
in  some  easier  and  cheaper  way,  they  could  not  be  sure 
of  so  good  a  price  ;  and  besides,  this  would  make  people 
curious  to  find  out  about  this  easier  way  of  making 
books,  which  Faust  and  Schoffer  wished  to  keep  secret. 

There  are  two  copies  in  the  National  Library  at  Paris  ; 
one  copy  at  the  Royal  Library  at  Munich ;  and  one  at 
Vienna.  It  is  not  what  is  commonly  known  as  the  May- 
ence  Bible,  but  is  of  earlier  date  than  that. 

It  is  without  name  of  printer  or  publisher,  and  with- 
out date.  It  is  in  two  great  volumes  folio,  of  about  six 
hundred  pages  a  volume.  You  very  likely  could  not 
read  a  word  of  it  if  you  were  to  see  it ;  for  it  is  in  Latin, 
and  in  black  Gothic  type,  with  many  of  the  words 
abbreviated,  and  packed  so  closely  together  as  to  puzzle 
the  eye.  I  give  a  line  of  this  printing  to  show  you  that 
it  would  not  make  easy  reading.  Should  you  chance  to 
own  a  Copy  (and  you  probably  never  will),  you  could  sell 
it  for  enough  money  to  buy  yourself  a  little  library  of 
about  two  thousand  volumes. 


32  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

gmtnteiitt;iam:e4((t)id0  am  ^mmt 

It  was  certainly  the  first  Bible  printed  from  movable 
types  ;  but  poor  Gutenberg  got  no  money  from  it, 
though  he  had  done  most  of  the  work  upon  it.  But  he 
did  not  grow  disheartened.  He  toiled  on,  though  he 
was  without  the  help  of  Schoffer  and  of  Faust,  and  in  a 
few  years  afterward  succeeded  in  making  books  which 
were  as  good  as  those  of  his  rivals.  Before  he  died  his 
name  was  attached  to  books  printed  as  clearly  and 
sharply  as  books  are  printed  to-day. 

Of  course  they  are  very  proud  of  his  memory  in  the 
old  Rhine  town  of  Mayence,  where  he  labored  ;  and 
they  have  erected  a  statue  there  to  his  memory, — from 
a  design  by  the  great  Danish  sculptor,  Thorwaldsen. 
This  statue  was  erected  in  August,  1837;  and  there 
was  a  great  festival  on  the  occasion  —  fifteen  thousand 
people  crowding  into  the  town  to  assist  in  doing  honor 
to  the  memory  of  the  first  printer.  The  old  cathedral 
was  thronged  ;  the  Bishop  of  Mayence  said  high  mass  ; 
and  the  first  Bible  printed  by  Gutenberg  was  displayed. 
On  the  site  where  he  worked  there  is  now  a  club-house  ; 
and  the  gentlemen  of  the  club-house  have  erected 
another  little  statue  to  Gutenberg  in  the  inner  court 
of  their  building. 

The  City  of  Slrashurg, 

But  Strasburg  is  as  proud  of  him  as  Mayence  ;  for  in 
Strasburg  the  burghers  of  that  city  say  he  studied  out 
the    plans  which  he  afterward    carried    into   execution 


HiBB  yys  "HHffl  HHBB  Hffisd  sfeoB  ifflP'  iSff  Sffl  fflH  ifflmf  InMT 


The  Guttenberg  (Vlonument  at  Strasburg. 


FIRST  PRINTERS  AND    THEIR  HOMES.         35 

at  Mayence.  So  in  Strasburg,  in  1840,  they  erected 
another  statue  to  his  memory,  by  David,  a  French 
sculptor.  It  is  of  bronze,  and  is  one  of  the  imposing 
sights  of  the  city  —  as  you  may  see  from  the  picture  I 
have  given  of  it. 

I  have  a  Httle  copy  of  the  head  of  Gutenberg  as  he 
is  represented  in  this  statue,  in  plaster  and  v^^ax,  which 
I  brought  away  from  Strasburg  a  great  many  years 
ago.  It  is  before  me  as  I  write,  —  a  cap  trimmed  with 
fur  upon  the  head,  a  sober  and  most  comely  face,  a  long 
beard  which  would  have  become  a  Hebrew  patriarch. 
He  must  have  been  a  man  of  noble  presence  ;  and, 
though  we  know  but  very  little  of  his  personal  history,  it 
is  certain  that  his  name  and  his  fame  will  live  among 
those  of  the  greatest  inventors.  Every  book  you  read  is 
a  monument  to  his  memory ;  and  he  is  deserving  of 
most  kindly  remembrance,  because  he  busied  himself 
throughout  a  long  life,  in  making  serviceable  an  art 
which  is  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  everybody.  Those 
who  made  dictionaries  of  biography  in  the  centuries 
which  followed  closely  after  him  didn't  think  it  worth 
their  while  to  gather  up  any  facts  about  his  life,  or  even 
to  mention  him  ;  but  they  spent  a  great  deal  of  useless 
labor  in  inquiries  about  the  lives  of  petty  princes  who 
made  wars  for  conquest,  and  of  students  who  made  wars 
with  words,  for  conquest  in  some  petty  points  of  theol- 
ogy ;  but  these  princes  and  bookworms  are  forgotten 
now,  while  John  Gutenberg  in  that  noble  statue  of  the 
old  city  of  Strasburg  is  looked  upon,  and  thought  of, 
and  honored,  more  than  if  Dr.  Bayle  had  written  one 
of  his  longest  and  fullest  folio  pages  about  him. 

You  will  see  the  statue  if  you  ever  go  to  Strasburg ; 


36 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


and  you  will  see  the  cathedral  too,  which  is  one  of  the 
grandest  and  most  beautiful  of  Europe.  The  tallest 
spire  in  New  York  would  hardly  reach  half  way  to  its 

top  ;  and  four  or  five  coun- 
try church  towers,  if  piled 
one  upon  the  other,  would 
not  make  a  scaffolding  high 
enough  to  reach  the  middle 
of  its  spire.  I  give  a 
glimpse  of  it,  as  you  see  it 
over  the  quaint  roofs  of  the 
city,  in  order  that  you  may 
associate  it  with  the  story 
of  the  first  printer. 

You  will  see  that  only  one 
of  its  towers  bears  a  spire  : 
upon  the  top  of  the  shorter 
tower  there  is  a  little  cot- 
tage of  entertainment,  more 
than  two  hundred  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  pavement. 
Here,  those  who  venture  on 
a  climb  to  this  lofty  plateau 
may  rest,  and  consider  —  if 
they  will  mount  still  higher 
into  the  regions  of  air,  where 
the  great  spire  will  carry 
them  if  they  choose  to  go. 
Some  thirty  years  ago  I  tried  this  second  climbing ; 
but  the  stone-work  is  as  open  as  a  lattice,  and  the 
people  on  the  street  far  below  looked  like  pygmies,  and 
the  whole  city  and  spire  seemed  to  reel  with  me ;  and 


Strasburg  Cathedral. 


FIRST  PRINTERS  AND    THEIR  HOMES.         ^7 

such  a  degree  of  dizziness  crept  over  me,  that  I  was 
glad  to  get  down  again  to  what  seemed  the  solid  footing 
of  the  deck  of  the  tower. 

And  was  the  great  cathedral  there  when  Gutenberg 
was  worrying  over  his  types  in  that  ancient  city  ?  Yes  : 
Gutenberg  saw  it ;  very  likely  he  saw  some  of  the 
last  stones  placed  upon  the  tower  ;  for  though  it  was 
commenced  three  or  four  centuries  before,  and  was  in 
course  of  building  when  Wallace  was  fighting  so  bravely 
in  the  glens  of  Scotland  (about  which  you  will  remem- 
ber, if  you  have  read  "  The  Scottish  Chiefs"),  the  tower 
was  only  completed  in  1365. 

Another  thing  to  remember  about  this  great  cathe- 
dral, which  throws  its  shadow  upon  Gutenberg's  statue, 
is,  —  Sabina  Erwin  of  Steinbach,  a  daughter  of  the  great 
architect,  conducted  and  directed  the  building  of  much 
of  it  in  the  years  when  it  was  being  finished.  Think  of 
that  when  you  hear  that  women  can  do  no  grand  things  ! 
Think,  too,  that  in  those  very  years,  when  Gutenberg 
was  printing  his  first  book,  that  other  wonderful  woman 
Joan  of  Arc,  was  putting  courage  into  French  armies 
by  leading  them  herself,  —  and  the  first  printer  was 
very  likely  one  of  those  who  grieved  greatly  when  they 
learned  that  the  poor,  brave  Joan  had  been  burned  in 
the  city  of  Rouen,  by  order  of  the  cruel  English  com- 
mander. 

I  don't  think  that  Gutenberg  ever  saw  the  clock  that 
you  may  now  see  in  the  Cathedral  of  Strasburg,  for  it 
has  only  been  there  a  little  over  three  hundred  years. 
But  it  is  a  famous  clock  :  I  would  not  dare  to  tell  you  of 
all  the  amazing  things  its  hidden  machinery  can  do. 
The  figures  of  the   apostles    march  ;  a  cock  claps  his 


38  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

wings,  and  crows  ;  death  (in  the  shape  of  a  skeleton) 
appears ;  and  there  are  chimes,  and  sweet  jangHng 
sounds ;  and  the  moon  shows  its  changes,  and  the  plan- 
ets too. 

'  But,  most  of  all,  think,  —  in  connection  with  this 
great  church  building  and  the  clock  and  the  spire,  and 
the  rich  pates  de  foie  gras  which  they  give  you  for  dinner 
in  Strasburg, — think  of  the  old  long-bearded  prince  of 
printers,  who  by  his  art  and  toil  and  genius  contrived 
movable  types,  and  first  made  it  possible  for  all  the  men 
who- can  tell  stories  worth  a  long  life,  to  repeat  them  in 
print,  so  that  you  may  take  them  in  your  hand  to  study, 
and  dream  over,  and  enjoy. 


FIRST  PRINTERS  AND   THEIR  HOMES.         39 


Old  English  Printers, 

But  who  printed  the  first  English  book?  And  did 
that  follow  quickly  afterward  ?  Not  many  years  —  per- 
haps twenty.  And  the  man  who  did  this  was  named 
William  Caxton  —  a  name  which  has  been  held  m  very 
great  honor  ever  since. 

He  was  in  early  life  apprentice  to  a  seller  of  dry-goods 
in  London  ;  but  he  was  an  excellent  apprentice  ;  and  his 
master  came  to  be  Mayor  of  London,  and  left  him  a  fair 
fortune.  His  zeal  and  industry  made  him  a  marked 
man,  —  so  that  he  was  sent  by  the  Government  over  to 
Flanders,  to  the  city  of  Bruges,  where  Philip  the  Good  of 
Burgundy  was  ruling.  And  there  he  studied,  and  there 
he  came  to  a  knowledge  of  what  Gutenberg  had  been 
doing,  and  of  what  Faust  had  been  doing,  in  Mayence. 
And  he  translated  the  ''Histories  of  Troye  " — for  he 
had  made  himself  a  good  scholar ;  and  he  secured  some 
of  the  workmen  who  had  been  with  Faust  and  Schoffer, 
after  their  printing-office  was  broken  up  by  a  war  that 
raged  in  that  day  along  the  Rhine ;  and,  taking  over  the 
workmen  into  England,  he  set  up  a  printing-office  at 
Westminster,  —  in  some  outbuilding  of  the  famous  West- 
minster Abbey, — and  there  printed  his  Histories  of 
Troye,  and  many  another  book ;  among  them  a  Life  of 
Charles  the  Great,  of  which  he  says,  *'  I  have  specially 
reduced  it  (translated  it)  after  the  simple  cunning  that 
God  hath  lent  to  me,  whereof  I  humbly  and  with  all 
my  heart  thank  Him,  and  also  am  bounden  to  pray  for 
my  fathers  and  mothers  souls,  that  in  my  youth  set  me 
to  school,  by  which,  by  the  sufferance  of  God,  I  get  my 
living  I  hope  truly." 


40  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

And  in  this  spirit  of  old-fashioned  honesty  and  zeal, 
the  good  printer  toiled  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

And  after  his  death,  the  men  who  had  worked  with 
him  —  of  whom  Wynkyn  de  Worde  was  chief  —  car- 
ried on  labor  in  the  same  spirit,  and  looked  forward  to 
"the  happy  day  when  a  Bible  should  be  chained  in 
every  church,  for  every  Christian  man  to  look  upon." 

And  this  was  a  great  thing  to  look  forward  to  in  that 
day.  Books  had  borne  and  were  bearing  a  value  which 
would  astonish  you  now.  An  old  Italian  called  Poggio 
had  —  in  those  centuries,  and  not  long  before  —  ex- 
changed his  manuscript  copy  of  Livy  for  a  country  villa 
near  to  Florence. 

In  England,  the  cost  of  copying  a  book  in  writing 
was  worth  the  price  of  two  fat  oxen.  Chaining  books 
to  desks  was  not  uncommon  ;  but  it  was  not  in  every 
church  they  were  chained.  They  were  in  great  reli- 
gious houses,  called  monasteries  and  abbeys  ;  or  they 
were  carefully  guarded  in  the  cabinets  of  kings. 

The  bindings  of  many  of  the  old  manuscript  books, 
and  of  the  early  printed  ones,  were  enriched  with  very 
rare  carving  in  ivory  or  wood,  or  they  were  enamelled 
beautifully  on  copper  and  adorned  with  pearls  and  rare 
stones,  and  their  clasps  were  of  silver  and  of  gold. 
Many  bindings  of  this  sort  are  now  kept  with  great  *care 
in  European  museums,  and  are  very  much  valued.  In 
the  old  church  of  Monza,  which  is  an  Italian  town  very 
near  to  Milan,  there  is  a  very  old  and  curious  piece  of 
book-binding,  which,  with  its  manuscript  of  the  Gospels 
in  Greek,  was  given  to  the  church  by  Theodolinda,  a 
good  and  famous  queen  of  the  Lombards,  who  lived 
twelve  hundred  years  ago.      It  is  of  silver  and  gold,  and 


FIRST  PRINTERS  AND    THEIR  HOMES. 


41 


set  over  with  precious  stones,  and  is,  I  think,  the  oldest 
bound  book  in  the  world.  It  was  a  very  old  book,  and 
a  prized  book,  when  Wynkyn  de  Worde  talked  about 
chaining  a  Bible,  some  day,  in  every  church. 

What  would  the  good  old  man  have  thought  of  Bibles 
printed  and  sold  for  only  a  few  pennies  each }  What 
would  the  first  English  printer  have  thought,  if  he  had 
been  told  that  within  three  centuries,  in  a  country  un- 
heard of  by  him  (for  Columbus  sailed  on  his  first  voy- 
age the  very  year  on  which  William  Caxton  died),  and 
in  a  single  city  of  that  country,  more  type  would  be  set 
up  in  one  day,  than  was  set  up  in  all  Europe  during 
the  space  of  a  year,  in  his  time } 


III. 


THE    ARABIAN    NIGHTS. 


Who  wrote  the  Stories? 


WHO  knows  ?  Not  Captain  Mayne  Reid  ;  though 
had  he  been  born  a  Persian,  and  lived  long 
time  enough  ago,  and  been  a  Caliph  with  a  long  beard 
and  a  cimiter  —  instead  of  a  captain  in  the  Mexican 
war,  with  a  Colt's  revolver  and  a  goatee, — and  had  he 
seen  the  cloud  of  dust  which  Ali-Baba  saw,  I  think  he 
could  have  made  out  the  band  of  forty  robbers  under 
it,  and  the  cave,  and  all  the  rest. 

But  Mayne  Reid  didn't  see  the  cloud  of  dust  which 
covered  those  robbers  (and  which  is  very  apt  to  cover 
all  gangs  of  public  robbers),  and  did  not  live  so  long 
ago,  and  therefore  did  not  write  "The  Arabian  Nights." 
Nor  did  Mrs.  Hannah  More,  for  the  book  is  not  in  her 
style  ;  nor  did  the  author  of  ''  Little  Women." 

You    could    never   guess   who  wrote   **The  Arabian 

Nights," — for  nobody  knows  when  those   stories  were 

first  written.      It  seems  very  odd  that  a  book  should  be 

made,  and  no  one  able  to  tell  when  it  was  made.     The 

42 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  43 

publishers  don't  allow  such  things  to  happen  nowadays. 
Yet  it  is  even  so  with  the  book  we  are  talking  of.  Of 
course  it  is  possible  to  fix  the  date  of  the  many  trans- 
lations of  *'The  Arabian  Nights  "  which  have  been  made 
into  the  languages  of  Europe  from  the  old  Arabic 
manuscripts.  Thus  it  was  in  the  year  1704  that  a  cer- 
tain Antoine  Galland,  a  distinguished  Oriental  scholar 
of  Paris,  who  had  travelled  in  the  East,  and  who  had 
collected  many  curious  manuscripts  and  medals,  pub- 
lished a  French  translation  of  what  was  called  **The 
Thousand  and  One  Nights."  This  was  in  the  time  of  the 
gay  court  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  ;  and  the  fine  ladies  of 
the  court  —  those  of  them  who  could  read  —  all  devoured 
the  book ;  and  the  school-boys  throughout  France 
(though  there  were  not  many  school-boys  in  those  days 
outside  of  the  great  cities)  all  came  to  know  the  won- 
derful stories  of  Aladdin  and  of  Ali-Baba.  Remember 
that  this  was  about  the  time  when  the  great  Duke  of 
Marlboro'  was  winning  his  famous  victories  on  the  Con- 
tinent,—  specially  that  of  Blenheim  ;  about  which  an 
English  poet,  Dr.  Southey,  has  written  a  quaint  little 
poem,  which  you  should  read.  It  was  in  the  lifetime, 
too,  of  Daniel  Defoe, — who  wrote  that  ever-charming 
story  of  Robinson  Crusoe  some  twelve  or  fourteen  years 
later ;  and  the  first  newspaper  in  America  —  called  "  The 
Boston  News  Letter"  —  was  printed  in  the  same  year 
in  which  Antoine  Galland  published  his  translation  of 
"The  Thousand  and  One  Nights."  If  you  should  go 
to  Paris,  and  be  curious  to  see  it,  you  can  find  in  the 
Imperial  Library,  or  the  National  Library  (or  whatever 
those  changeable  French  people  may  call  it  now),  the 
very  manuscript  of  Antoine  Galland. 


44 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


Some  years  afterward  there  was  a  new  and  fuller 
translation  by  another  Oriental  scholar,  who  had  suc- 
ceeded M.  Galland  as  professor  of  Arabic  in  the  Royal 
College.  Then  there  followed,  in  the  early  part  of  this 
century,  translations  into  English  ;  and  I  suppose  that 
American  boys  in  the  days  of  President  Monroe  took 
their  first  taste  of  those  gorgeous  Arabian  tales. 

But  the  completest  of  all  the  collections  was  made 
by  a  German  scholar,  Mr.  Von  Hammer,  in  the  year 
1824 — not  so  far  back  but  that  your  fathers  and  moth- 
ers may  remember  little  stray  paragraphs  in  the  papers, 
which  made  mention  of  how  a  German  scholar  had 
traced  these  old  Arabian  tales  back  to  a  very  dim  anti- 
quity in  India ;  and  how  he  believed  they  had  thence 
gone  into  Persia,  where  the  great  men  of  the  stories  all 
became  Caliphs  ;  and  how  they  floated  thence,  by  hear- 
say, into  Arabia  (which  was  a  coilntry  of  scribes  and 
scholars  in  the  days  of  Haroun  al  Raschid)  ;  and  how 
they  there  took  form  in  the  old  Arabic  manuscripts 
which  Antoine  Galland  had  found  and  translated.  But 
during  the  century  that  had  passed  since  M.  Galland's 
death,  other  and  fuller  Arabic  copies  had  been  found, 
with  new  tales  added,  and  with  other  versions  of  the 
tales  first  told. 

But  what  we  call  the  machinery  of  the  stories  was 
always  much  the  same ;  and  the  same  Genii  flashed  out 
in  smoke  and  flame,  and  the  same  cimiters  went  blaz- 
ing and  dealing  death  through  all  the  copies  of  **  The 
Thousand  and  One  Nights." 

But  why  came  that  title  of  "■  The  Thousand  and  One 
Nights,"  which  belonged,  and  still  belongs,  to  all  the 
European  collections  of  these  old  Arabian  stories  .-^     I 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  45 

will  tell  you  why ;  and  in  telling  you  why,  I  shall  give 
you  the  whole  background  on  which  all  these  various 
Arabian  stories,  wherever  found,  are  arrayed.  And  the 
background  is.  itself  a  story,  and  this  is  the  way  it 
runs: — 

The  Viziefs  daughter. 

Once  there  lived  a  wicked  Sultan  of  Persia,  whose 
name  was  Schahriar ;  and  he  had  many  wives  —  like 
the  Persian  Shah  who  went  journeying  into  England  a 
few  summers  ago  ;  and  he  thought  of  his  wives  as  stock- 
owners  think  of  their  cattle  —  and  I  fear  the  present 
Persian  Shah  thinks  no  otherwise. 

Well,  when  this  old  Schahriar  found  that  his  wives 
were  faithless  and  deceitful,  —  as  all  wives  will  be  who 
are  esteemed  no  more  than  cattle,  —  he  vowed  that  he 
would  cut  off  all  chance  of  their  sinning  by  making 
an  end  of  them  :  so  it  happened  that  whatever  new 
wife  he  espoused  one  day,  he  killed  upon  the  next. 

You  will  think  the  brides  were  foolish  to  marry  him  ; 
but  many  women  keep  on  making  as  foolish  matches  all 
the  world  over ;  and  she  who  marries  a  sot,  or  the  man 
who  promises  to  be  a  sot,  is  killed  slowly,  instead  of 
being  killed  quickly  with  a  bow-string,  —  as  the  Schah- 
riar did  his  work. 

Besides,  all  women  of  the  East  were  slaves,  as  they 
are  mostly  now,  and  subject  to  whatever  orders  the 
Sultan  might  make. 

Now,  it  happened  that  this  old  Schahriar  had  a  vizier, 
or  chief  officer  under  him,  who  executed  all  his  mur- 
derous orders,  and  who  was  horrified  by  the  cruelties 
he  had  to  commit,     And  this  same  vizier  had  a  beauti- 


46 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


ful  and  accomplished  daughter,  who  was  even  more 
horrified  than  her  father  ;  and  she  plotted  how  she 
might  stay  the  bloody  actions  of  the  Schahriar. 


Vizier  and  Daughter. 


She  could  gain  no  access  to  him,  and  could  hope  to 
win  no  influence  over  him,  except  by  becoming  his 
bride  ;  but,  if  she  became  his  bride,  she  would  have  but 
one  day  to  live.     So,  at  least,  thought  her  sisters  and 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  47 

her  father.  She,  of  course,  found  it  very  hard  to  win 
the  consent  of  her  lather,  the  vizier,  to  her  plan ;  but  at 
last  she  succeeded,  and  so  arranged  matters  that  the 
Schahriar  should  command  her  to  be  his  bride. 

The  fatal  marriage-day  came,  and  the  vizier  was  in  an 
agony  of  grief  and  alarm.  The  morning  after  the 
espousals,  he  waited  —  in  an  ecstasy  of  fear  —  the 
usual  order  for  the  slaughter  of  the  innocent  bride  ;  but 
to  his  amazement  and  present  relief,  the  order  was 
postponed  to  the  following  day. 

This  bride,  whose  name  was  Scheherazade,  —  known 
now  to  school-boys  and  school-girls  all   over  the  world, 

—  was  most  beguiling  of  speech,  and  a  most  charming 
story-teller.  And  on  the  day  of  her  marriage  she  had 
commenced  the  narration  of  a  most  engrossing  story  to 
her  husband  the  Schahriar;  and  had  so  artfully  timed  it, 
and  measured  out  its  length,  that,  when  the  hour  came 
for  the  Sultan  to  set  about  his  cares  of  office,  she  should 
be  at  its  most  interesting  stage.  The  Sultan  had  been 
so  beguiled  by  the  witchery  of  her  narrative,  and  so 
eager  to  learn  the  issue,  that  he  put  off  the  execution 
of  his  murderous  design,  in  order  to  hear  the  termina- 
tion of  the  story  on  the  following  night. 

And  so  rich  was  the  narration,  and  so  great  was  the 
art  of  the  princess  Scheherazade,  that  she  kept  ali-ve 
the   curiosity  and  wonder  of  her  husband,  the  Sultan, 

—  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  and  month  after 
month,  —  until  her  fascinating  stories  had  lasted  for  a 
thousand  and  one  nights. 

If  you  count  up  these  you  will  find  they  make  a 
period  of  two  years  and  nine  months  —  during  which 
she  had  beguiled  the  Sultan,  and  stayed  the  order  for 


48  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

her  execution.  In  the  interval,  children  had  been  born 
to  her ;  and  she  had  so  won  upon  her  husband,  that  he 
abolished  his  cruel  edict  forever,  —  on  condition  that 
from  time  to  time  she  should  tell  over  again  those 
enchanting  stories.  And  the  stories  she  told  on  those 
thousand  and  one  nights,  and  which  have  been  recited 
since  in  every  language  of  Europe,  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  times,  are  the  Arabian  Nights  tales. 

If  this  account  is  not  true  in  all  particulars,  it  is  at 
least  as  true  as  the  stories  are. 

A  good  woman  sacrificed  herself  to  work  a  deed  of 
benevolence.  TJiat  story,  at  any  rate,  is  true,  and  is 
being  repeated  over  and  over  in  lives  all  around  us. 

But,  after  all,  the  question  is  not  answered  as  to  who 
wrote  **The  Arabian  Nights."  I  doubt  if  it  ever  will  be 
answered  truly.  Who  cares,  indeed  }  I  dare  say  that 
youngsters  in  these  days  of  investigation  committees 
are  growing  up  more  curious  and  inquiring  than  they 
used  to  be ;  but  I  know  well  I  cared  or  thought  noth- 
ing about  the  authorship  in  those  old  school  days  when 
I  caught  my  first  reading  of  Aladdin  and  the  Wonderful 
Lamp. 

What  a  night  it  was  !  What  a  feast !  I  think  I  could 
have  kissed  the  hand  that  wrote  it. 

•A  little  red  morocco-bound  book  it  was,  with  gilt 
edges  to  the  leaves,  that  I  had  borrowed  from  Tom 
Spooner ;  and  Tom  Spooner's  aunt  had  loaned  it  to  him, 
and  she  thought  all  the  world  of  it,  and  had  covered  it 
in  brown  paper,  and  I  mustn't  soil  it,  or  dog's-ear  it. 
And  I  sat  down  with  it  —  how  well  I  remember  !  —  at  a 
little  square-legged  red  table  in  the  north  recitation- 
room  at  E school ;  and  there  was  a  black  hole  in 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  49 

the  top  of  the  table  —  where  Dick  Linsey,  who  was  a 
miUtary  character,  and  freckled,  had  set  off  a  squib  of 
gunpowder  (and  got  trounced  for  it)  ;  and  the  smell  of 
the  burnt  powder  lingered  there,  and  came  up  grateful- 
ly into  my  nostrils,  as  I  read  about  the  sulphurous 
clouds  rolling  up  round  the  wonderful  lamp,  and  the 
Genie  coming  forth  in  smoke  and  flames  ! 

What  delight !  If  I  could  only  fall  in  with  an  old 
peddler  with  a  rusty  lamp,  —  such  as  Aladdin's,  — 
wouldn't  I  rub  it ! 

And  with  my  elbows  fast  on  the  little  red  table,  and 
my  knees  fast  against  the  square  legs,  and  the  smell  of 
the  old  squib  regaling  me,  I  thought  what  I  would 
order  the  Genie  to  do,  if  I  ever  had  a  chance  :  —  A 
week's  holiday  to  begin  with  ;  and  the  Genie  should  be 
requested  to  set  the  school  *' principal"  down,  green 
spectacles  and  all,  in  the  thickest  of  the  woods  some- 
where on  the  **  mountain."  Saturday  afternoons  should 
come  twice  a  week  —  at  the  very  least ;  turkey,  with 
stuffing,  every  day  except  oyster  day.  I  would  have  a 
case  of  pocket-knives  ''Rogers'  superfine  cutlery"  — 
(though  Kingsbury  always  insisted  that  "  Wosten- 
holm's  "  were  better)  brought  into  my  closet,  and  would 
give  them  out,  cautiously,  to  the  clever  boys.  I  would 
have  a  sled,  brought  by  the  Genie,  that  would  beat 
Ben  Brace's  ''Reindeer,"  he  bragged  so  much  about, — 
by  two  rods,  at  least.  I  would  have  a  cork  jacket,  with 
which  I  could  swim  across  Snipsic  Lake,  where  it  was 
widest,  —  twice  over,  —  and  think  nothing  of  it.  I 
would  have  a  cavern,  like  the  salt  mines  in  Cracow, 
Poland  (as  pictured  in  Parley's  Geography)  ;  only,  in- 
stead of  salt,  it  should  all  be  rock-candy  ;  and  I  would 


50 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


let  in  clever  fellows  and  pretty  girls,  and  the  homely 
ones,  too  —  well,  as  often  as  every  Wednesday. 

Ah,  well-a-day  !  we  never  come  to  the  ownership  of 
such  caverns !  We  never  find  a  peddler  with  the  sort 
of  lamp  that  will  bring  any  sort  of  riches  —  with  wish- 
ing. 

But,  my  youngsters,  there  is  a  Genie  that  will  come 
to  any  boy's  command,  and  will  work  out  amazing- 
things  for  you  all  through  boyhood,  and  all  through 
life  ;  and  his  name  is  —  Industry. 

And  now,  if  your  lessons  are  all  done,  and  if  you 
will  keep  in  mind  what  I  have  said  about  *'  The  Arabian 
Nights,"  and  their  history,  we  will  have  a  taste  of  these 
Eastern  stories. 

:^laddin  and  his  Lamp. 

Aladdin  was  the  son  of  a  poor  old  woman  who  lived 
in  a  city  of  China.  His  father  was  dead,  and  he  didn't 
work  as  he  should  have  done  to  support  his  old  mother : 
in  fact,  all  his  early  life  was  not  the  sort  of  one  out  of 
which  men  are  apt  to  grow  into  heroes. 

He  was  idling  in  the  streets  one  day — as  idle  fellows 
will  —  when  he  met  a  strange  man  with  a  dark  face, 
who  asked  Aladdin  his  name,  and  told  him  he  was  a 
relative  of  his  father's,  and  would  befriend  him  ;  and 
thereupon  he  gave  him  some  gold  coins,  with  which 
Aladdin  ran  off  home. 

After  a  few  days  this  strange  man  (who  was  a  magician 
—  though  Aladdin  couldn't  know  that)  met  the  boy  again, 
and  gave  him  more  money,  and  paid  a  visit  to  his  old 
mother,  and  promised  to  set  up  the  boy  in  trade,  which 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  5 1 

he  did  do  —  furnishing  him  silks  to  sell,  or  whatever 
the  city  people  would  be  apt  to  buy.  And  this  same 
strange  dark  man  used  to  take  Aladdin  about  the  city, 
and  show  him  all  the  wonderful  sights  ;  and  finally  led 
him  one  day  far  beyond  the  city  walls,  to  a  retired  place 
between  two  mountains.  There  with  the  help  of  Alad- 
din he  builds  a  fire  (a  great  many  of  the  wonders  of 
these  tales  turn  upon  the  secret  power  of  fire)  ;  then  he 
utters  a  few  magical  words,  and  the  ground  opens,  show- 
ing an  iron  plate,  which  Aladdin  lifts,  and  lo !  there 
appear  steps  going  down  into  a  cavern  in  the  earth. 

The  magician  instructs  Aladdin  how  he  is  to  descend, 
—  tells  him  what  halls  of  treasure  he  will  pass  through, 
and  gardens  with  splendid  fruit,  —  tells  him  how  he 
must  touch  nothing  till  he  reaches  the  farthest  chamber, 
where  he  will  find  an  iron  lamp  in  a  niche  of  the  wall. 
This  he  must  seize  upon,  and  bring  back  :  after  he  has 
secured  this,  he  may  pluck  as  much  of  the  fruit  as  he 
chooses.  Lastly  he  puts  on  the  boy's  finger  a  ring, 
which  will  give  him  safety  and  help. 

So  Aladdin  enters,  —  marches  through  the  great  glit- 
tering corridors  (which,  though  they  were  deep  under 
ground,  were  as  light  as  day),  —  passes  through  the  gar- 
dens, and  reaches  and  seizes  the  lamp. 

He  picks  some  of  the  fruit  in  the  garden  ;  but  what 
seemed  fruit  are  only  topazes  and  diamonds  and  pearls. 
Of  course  he  fills  his  purse  and  his  pockets  ;  and,  ar- 
rived at  the  steps,  the  magician  asks  him  to  hand  up 
the  lamp. 

But  Aladdin  is  cautious  :  perhaps  he  suspects  a  little 
false  play  on  the  part  of  the  magician,  and  he  refuses 
until  he  shall  have  come  fairly  out. 


52  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

At  this  the  magician  in  a  rage  utters  again  a  few 
magical  words,  and  the  ground  and  iron  door  close  on 
poor  Aladdin.  He  wanders  in  despair  up  and  down. 
He  calls  out  ;  but  who  can  hear  him  in  those  depths  t 
At  last  he  betakes  himself  to  prayer  ;  and,  in  the  act 
of  clasping  his  hands,  he  rubs  slightly  the  ring  upon 
his  finger.  Upon  this  a  great  Genie  appears  in  smoke 
and  flame,  by  whose  power  he  is  placed  outside  once 
more,  and  he  wanders  back  to  his  mother's  house  in 
the  city. 

I  don't  know  what  became  of  his  shop  and  stock  of 
goods  ;  or  what  became  of  his  pocket-full  of  rubies  and 
diamonds.  The  story  doesn't  say  ;  but  it  does  say  that 
he  felt  hungry  on  one  occasion,  when  there  was  no  bread 
in  the  house,  and  no  money.  So  he  determined  to  sell 
the  old  lamp  :  the  mother  thinks  no  one  will  buy  it,  ex- 
cept she  brighten  it  up  a  little.  But  she  has  no  sooner 
set  to  work  at  the  scouring,  than  smoke  and  flame  fill 
the  place,  and  out  of  the  smoke  and  flame  comes  a  ter- 
rible Genie,  who  offers  to  do  Aladdin's  bidding. 

Aladdin  wants  food  ;  and  straightway,  the  Genie  hav- 
ing vanished,  slaves  come  in  from  some  unknown  quar- 
ter, and  bring  silver  and  gold  dishes  heaped  up  with 
meats  and  fruits  such  as  these  humble  people  had 
never  tasted  before.  And  when  after  some  days  the 
meats  are  gone,  the  gold  dishes  are  sold  to  a  Jew,  and 
they  have  money  for  months  longer.  Two  or  three 
times  in  the  course  of  a  year  this  is  repeated  :  the  lamp 
is  rubbed  ;  the  Genie  comes  ;  the  food  in  golden  dishes 
is  sent  up  ;  the  dishes  are  sold.  I  don't  think  Aladdin 
can  have  made  a  very  good  bargain  with  the  Jew  who 
bought  his  dishes.     For  my  part,  I  think  I  should  have 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS,  53 

commanded  the  Genie  to  bring  a  good  batch  of  "  cur- 
rent funds,"  and  bought  my  own  dishes.  But  Aladdin 
didn't. 

He  began  shortly  to  have  ambitious  views  about  get- 
ting up  in  the  world.  He  had  seen  the  Sultan's  daugh- 
ter, and,  approving  of  her  looks,  thought  he  would  like 
to  marry  her.  He  sent  his  old  mother  to  ''  interview  " 
the  Sultan  on  the  subject. 

People  at  the  court  hooted  her  at  the  first ;  but  she 
bore  great  gifts  of  jewels  and  gold, — so  great  that  at 
last  the  Sultan  listened,  and  promised  that  at  the  end  of 
a  certain  time  his  daughter  would  receive  the  addresses 
of  this  unknown  lover. 

But,  as  the  Sultan  had  already  the  rare  jewels  in  his 
own  keeping,  he  did  not  keep  very  fast  in  mind  poor 
Aladdin ;  and  so  Aladdin  woke  one  morning  to  hear  the 
bells  ringing  for  the  marriage  of  the  Sultan's  daughter. 
However,  by  the  aid  of  the  lamp  and  the  Genie,  he  put 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  this  new  marriage ;  and  sent 
such  splendid  gifts  that  at  last  he  won  his  purpose ;  and 
his  marriage  day  with  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the 
Sultan  was  really  appointed.  He  built  a  magnificent 
palace  —  all  through  the  Genie  of  the  lamp  —  in  which 
he  was  to  live  ;  and  he  purposely  left  one  window  in  the 
great  hall  unfinished,  and  then  he  challenged  the  best 
work-people  of  the  Sultan  to  complete  it. 

The  Sultan  sent  his  cunningest  workmen,  and  his 
whole  stock  of  jewels,  to  make  the  window  of  the 
palace  as  perfect  as  the  rest.  But  they  could  not  do  it. 
The  laborers  were  not  cunning  enough,  and  the  jewels 
were  not  rare  enough.  So  Aladdin  ordered  them  away ; 
and  then  (with  his  lamp,  and  a  little  rubbing  of  it)  he 
called  his  Genie,  and  all  was  finished  in  an  hour's  time. 


54  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

The  Sultan's  daughter  seems  to  have  Hked  Aladdin ; 
and  they  lived  very  happily  together  for  a  while  in  this 
palace.  I  dare  say  the  old  people  of  the  court  thought 
Aladdin  an  upstart,  and  perhaps  they  didn't  visit  him 
notwithstanding  his  wife's  position. 

Meantime,  what  has  become  of  that  African  magi- 
cian.?  He  had  gone  away  —  across  Tartary  possibly, 
and  by  way  of  Bagdad  very  likely,  to  his  own  country,  — 
thinking  poor  Aladdin  was  buried  in  the  cavern.  But, 
by  his  magic,  he  learned  after  a  time  how  things  had 
turned  in  China :  so  he  travelled  back  to  get  possession 
of  the  wonderful  lamp.  The  way  in  which  he  did  this 
was  a  very  shrewd  way ;  for  he  disguised  himself  as 
a  peddler  of  new  and  flash  trinkets,  and  offered  to 
change  them  for  old  candlesticks  or  old  lamps. 

If  he  had  lived  in  our  time,  he  would  have  found  that 
women  love  old  candlesticks  very  much  more  than  any 
new  things ;  but  it  was  not  so  then  ;  and  he  went  to  the 
gates  of  this  splendid  Aladdin  palace,  bawling  his  wares, 
and  offering  to  change  new  lamps  for  old  ones.  And 
some  slave  —  I  suppose  an  upper  chambermaid  —  re- 
ported what  he  said  to  the  princess  Buddir  al  Buddoor 
(which  was  the  name  of  Aladdin's  bride).  And  she 
hinted  to  the  princess  that  an  old  lamp  stood  always  on 
her  master's  table,  which  was  so  ugly  and  old,  that  it 
would  be  much  better  to  have  a  new  one  in  place  of  it. 

The  princess  Buddir  thought  the  same ;  and,  Aladdin 
being  away  a-hunting,  the  bargain  was  made. 

What  do  you  think  came  of  it }  Why,  next  morning, 
when  the  Sultan  waked  up,  he  looked  over  to  admire  the 
fine  palace  of  his  son-in-law,  and  behold  !  there  was  no 
palace  there !  The  African  magician  (by  the  aid  of  the 
lamp)  had  whisked  it  away  into  his  own  country. 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.     ■  SS 

Poor  Aladdin,  when  he  came  back  from  hunting,  had 
a  sorry  time  of  it,  and  the  Sultan  threatened  to  take  off 
his  head.  But  he  begged  grace  for  two  months  or  so, 
in  which  time  he  hoped  to  get  things  straight  again. 

What  way  should  he  turn  ?  He  knew  it  must  all 
come  of  the  lamp ;  but  where  to  find  it  .'*  He  thought 
if  he  could  discover  the  princess,  he  might  learn  some- 
thing about  the  lamp  ;  though  I  am  afraid  he  lamented 
the  loss  of  the  lamp  more  than  he  did  the  loss  of  the 
princess.  He  remembered  the  ring  the  magician  had 
given  him,  and  gave  it  a  good  rubbing ;  sure  enough, 
the  old  Genie  that  had  met  him  in  the  cavern  came 
back  in  smoke  and  flame.  The  Genie  couldn't  give 
back  his  bride  to  him  ;  but  it  transported  him  over  land 
and  sea  in  a  twinkling,  and  set  him  down  under  the 
walls  of  his  lost  palace,  which  was  standing  now  in  the 
magician's  country,  just  as  complete  and  beautiful  as  it 
stood  before  in  China.  This  was  very  wonderful.  I 
suppose  if  the  African  newspapers  of  that  time  re- 
marked upon  it,  they  probably  said,  —  "  We  observe  that 
a  fine  residence  has  gone  up  on  Pyramid  Street,  adding 
much  to  the  value  of  property  in  that  locality,  and  doing 
credit  to  the  taste  and  enterprise  of  our  fellow  towns- 
man Mr.  Magic." 

Aladdin  saw  through  the  blinds  of  a  window  of  the 
residence  the  beloved  Buddir  (I  suppose  he  called  her 
Budd,  or  perhaps  Rosebud) ;  and  she  saw  him,  and 
sent  her  maid  to  open  the  postern,  or  whatever  the  gate 
was  called ;  and  he  came  in,  and  learned  how  it  had 
all  happened.  And  Rosebud  said  the  magician  came 
every  day,  and  was  trying  to  win  her  affections.  Alad- 
din told  her  not  to  bluff  him  outright ;  but  to  treat  him 


56  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

kindly,  and  ask  him  to  take  supper  with  her.  Then  he 
goes  to  a  drug-shop  near  by,  and  buys  a  powder,  — 
sulphate  of  morphia,  perhaps,  —  and,  returning  quietly 
and  secretly,  causes  the  powder  to  be  put  in  the  magi- 
cian's cup. 

That  is  the  end  of  the  magician.  The  lamp  —  as  you 
will  have  guessed  —  was  in  his  bosom;  and  Aladdin 
takes  it  out  —  rubs  it,  and  whisks  his  palace — Rose- 
bud and  all  —  back  to  China  once  more. 

The  Sultan  is  delighted  to  find  things  on  their  old 
footing.  And  I  suppose  the  China  newspapers  said, 
"  We  are  gratified  to  see  that  the  residence  of  our  friend 
Col.  Aladdin  is  again  in  position,  and  occupied  by  the 
esteemed  family  of  the  colonel.  Its  temporary  dis- 
placement is  said  to  have  been  due  to  a  slight  earth- 
quake, against  which  in  future  we  understand  that  the 
colonel  has  abundantly  provided.  Mrs.  Col.  Aladdin, 
nee  Buddir,  is,  we  learn,  in  her  usual  health,  not  having 
suffered,  as  was  at  first  reported,  by  the  catastrophe." 

Things  were  now  going  on  very  swimmingly  with 
Aladdin  ;  and  they  would  have  continued  thus,  had  not 
an  old  lady  who  boasted  of  being  very  religious  (which 
is  not  a  thing  to  boast  of)  put  herself  in  the  way  of 
Princess  Budd,  and  so  won  upon  her,  that  Rosebud 
thought  she  would  do  nothing  without  taking  the  advice 
of  Fatima, — which  was  the  name  of  the  pretended 
holy  woman. 

Rosebud  asked  Fatima  how  she  liked  her  palace,  and 
her  crockery,  and  her  great  Hall.  Fatima  liked  it  all 
very  well,  except  the  Hall,  which  she  thought  wanted  a 
Roc's  Qgg  hung  up  in  the  middle. 

It  must  have  been  a  very  great  hall  ;  for  a  Roc's  itgg 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  57 

was  so  large  that  when  it  lay  upon  the  plain  it  looked 
like  a  round-topped  temple. 

But  perhaps  Budd  had  never  seen  one  —  probably  not 
She  asked  Aladdin  to  get  her  a  Roc's  egg.  So  he  takes 
to  his  lamp,  and  calls  up  his  Genie. 

For  once  the  Great  Slave  was  raging  with  anger. 
The  house  shook  ;  flames  darted  from  the  eyes  of  the 
Genie.  Aladdin  did  not  know  that  the  Roc  was  own 
cousin  to  this  creature  of  smoke  and  flame  —  and  that 
they  were  much  attached  to  each  other. 


Roc's  Egg. 

The  Genie  at  last  cooled  down,  and  told  Aladdin  how 
it  was ;  and  told  him,  besides,  that  the  holy  woman  was 
no  woman  at  all — only  a  brother  of  the  wicked  magi- 
cian, who  had  murdered  the  true  Fatima,  and  had  made 
his  way  into  the  palace  to  destroy  Aladdin,  and  get  pos- 
session of  the  Wonderful  Lamp. 

So  Aladdin  determined  to  meet  the  tricks  of  the 
magician  with  a  trick  of  his  own.  He  pretended  to  be 
sick,  and  summoned  the  holy  woman  to  comfort  him  : 
he  watched  her  narrowly,  and  saw  that  under  the  folds 


58  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

of  her  gown  she  had  a  dagger  in  hand.  Seizing  his 
chance,  he  snatched  it  from  her,  and  plunged  it  in  her 
bosom  ;  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  other  magician. 

Rosebud  was  greatly  shocked  ;  for  she  thought  still  it 
was  Fatima  who  was  murdered.  She  dried  her  tears 
when  Aladdin  told  her  the  true  story.  And  ever  after 
they  lived  together  in  great  comfort,  and  kept  the 
Wonderful  Lamp  till  they  died. 

And  who  do  you  think  has  the  Lamp  now  }  Nobody 
knows. 

It  seems  strange  that  such  a  lazy,  good-for-nothing 
fellow  as  Aladdin  is  said  to  be  in  the  beginning  of  the 
story,  should  have  come  to  such  great  luck.  Such  boys 
in  our  day  don't  come  to  any  thing  good  or  great.  The 
only  way  I  can  account  for  it  is  —  by  supposing  that 
there  was  really  no  lamp  at  all,  and  that  the  old  story- 
teller intended  what  he  calls  the  Lamp  to  mean  —  only 
Industry  and  Watchfulness  —  which,  as  long  as  Aladdin 
kept  and  used,  brought  him  riches  and  honor ;  and 
whenever  he  lost  hold  on  them  —  every  thing  turned  out 
badly. 

:^  Great  Traveller. 

In  the  time  of  the  ^rreat  Haroun  al  Raschid 


You  don't  know  who  the  great  Haroun  al  Raschid 
was } 

He  was  a  real  Eastern  monarch,  surnamed  The  Just, 
who  lived  about  eleven  hundred  years  ago  in  Bagdad. 
He  loved  science,  and  loved  letters ;  he  loved  fair 
women,  and  he  loved  pearls  and  jewels. 

I  don't  know  if  all  is  true  that  the  histories  tell  about 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  59 

him  ;  but  he  must  have  been  a  grand  monarch,  and  Uved 
in  more  luxury  than  most  monarchs. 

I  can't  forget  the  stories  of  him,  which  an  old  teacher 
of  my  boyish  days  put  in  my  mind.  They  cling  so  to 
my  memory,  that  I  never  hear  the  sweetly-flowing 
name  of  Haroun  al  Raschid,  but  I  seem  to  see  great 
gardens  full  of  bloom,  and  thrones  with  jewels  crusted 
on  them,  and  sparkling  fountains,  and  flashing  swords, 
and  silken  turbans,  and  troops  of  camels,  and  palm- 
trees  lifting  their  tops  .  into  the  dreamy  haze  of  East- 
ern countries.  Then,  again,  I  see  the  great  Caliph 
seated  on  his  jewelled  throne,  and  the  Grand  Vizier, 
Jaeffer,  in  attendance  on  him  —  looking  lovingly  upon 
the  beautiful  face  of  the  Princess  —  the  daughter  of 
Haroun.  Poor  Jaeffer  !  He  came  to  look  too  lovingly 
upon  the  beautiful  face  of  the  Princess ;  and  the  great 
Caliph  clipped  off  his  head  with  a  cimeter.  This  is 
history  I  am  telling  you  now  ;  and  this  really  and  truly 
happened.  It  has  made  a  great  blot  upon  the  fame 
of  Haroun  al  Raschid,  who,  —  for  all  this,  was  the  most 
brilliant  and  the  justest  monarch  of  those  centuries  ; 
and  he  lived  in  the  age  of  Charlemagne. 

Well  —  it  was  in  the  time  of  this  great  Caliph  Ha- 
roun al  Raschid,  and  in  his  great  city  of  Bagdad,  that  a 
porter  named  Hindbad,  very  poor,  and  very  tired,  and 
very  hungry,  —  one  day  sat  at  the  gate  of  a  rich,  tall 
palace,  snuffing  the  odors  of  the  rich  dinner  that  was 
being  served  within. 

The  by-standers  told  him  he  was  at  the  door  of  the 
great  traveller  and  merchant  —  Sindbad.  But  it  did  not 
console  the  poor  fellow  to  know  that  the  rich  man  had 
a  name  almost  like  his  own. 


6o 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


"Alas  !  "  said  he  (nobody  says  "Alas!"  now,  whatever 
happens),  "Alas,  why  has  Allah,  the  great  God,  given  to 
this  man  plenty,  and  to  poor  Hindbad  only  poverty?" 
Some  one  of  the  by-standers  —  very  likely  the  door- 
keeper —  reported 
this  speech  of  the 
poor  fellow  to  Sind- 
bad  ;  and  Sindbad  or- 
dered him  brought  in, 
and  gave  him  a  place 
at  his  table,  and  then 
and  there  commenced 
the  story  of  those 
dangerous  voyages  of 
his,  and  of  those  trials 
and  labors,  which  had 
made  him  rich.  I  sup- 
pose he  wanted  to 
make  poor  Hindbad 
understand  that  riches  do  not  fall  from  the  clouds,  and 
that  very  many  who  enjoy  them  have  come  to  them 
through  long  struggles  and  dangers  —  if  nothing  worse. 
Sindbad  said  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  merchant ;  and 
that  on  his  first  voyage  he  was  one  day  becalmed  beside 
what  seemed  a  great  green  island  :  and  that  he,  with 
several  of  the  crew,  went  ashore,  and  after  wandering 
about  some  time  suddenly  felt  the  land  quake  and  heave 
under  them.  This  was  not  strange  ;  for  what  they  had 
taken  to  be  an  island  was  in  reality  only  the  back  of 
a  huge  sea-monster  sleeping  on  the  water.  Before  he 
had  fairly  rolled  over  and  gone  down,  most  of  the  men 
made  their  escape  in  the  boat ;  but  poor  Sindbad  was 


Street  of  Bagdad. 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  6l 

not  quick  enough,  so  he  was  overwhelmed  in  the  sea. 
Luckily  he  seized  upon  a  log  as  he  rose,  and  clambering 
upon  it,  floated  upon  it  a  day  and  a  night,  and  at  last 
was  swept  into  the  bay  of  a  real  island  where  he  had 
many  adventures,  but  ended  with  getting  home  safely, 
and  with  the  wonderful  recovery  of  all  the  goods  he 
had  taken  out  in  his  ship. 

On  his  second  voyage  he  was  cast  away  again ;  and 
upon  the  island  where  he  landed  he  came  upon  one  of 
those  wonderful  Roc's  eggs  of  which  a  picture  was 
given  you  a  little  way  back.  Of  course  he  had  no 
idea  what  it  could  be ;  but  while  he  gazed  upon  it  in 
wonderment  the  sky  was  darkened,  and  the  mother-bird 
came  sailing  to  her  nest.  He  was  so  near  the  ^'ggy  that 
the  great  Roc  (which  was  large  enough  to  carry  off  an 
elephant  in  its  claws)  sat  down  upon  her  ^gg  and  poor 
Sindbad.  He  made  himself  as  small  as  he  could ;  and 
then  with  some  cord  he  had  in  his  pocket  —  what  does 
he  do  but  lash  himself  to  the  ankle,  or  to  one  of  the 
toes,  of  the  great  bird  ! 

Was  there  ever  such  a  bird }  To  tell  truth,  I  don't 
think  Sindbad's  story  is  very  good  authority  ;  but  there 
was  an  old  Venetian  traveller  named  Marco  Polo,  who 
went  all  across  Asia  some  years  later  than  the  time  of 
Haroun,  and  he  says  he  heard  of  the  Roc ;  and  people 
told  him  it  could  carry  up  an  elephant  and  a  rhinoceros 
together.  But  then,  Marco  Polo,  though  he  was  a  real 
traveller,  told  some  stories  that  it  is  hard  to  believe. 

Why  did  Sindbad  tie  himself  to  the  leg  of  the  great 
Roc  t  The  truth  is,  there  was  nothing  to  eat  on  the 
great  plain  where  the  Roc's  nest  was ;  and  he  was 
so  badly  off,  that  he  thought  he  could  not  fare  worse  in 


62 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


going  wherever  the  Roc  might  take  him.  He  doesn't 
seem  to  have  been  at  all  afraid  that  the  Roc  would 
devour  him ;  and  he  had  as  good  a  reason  for  wishing 
to  change  his  place  of  residence  as  many  people  have 
now  every  May-day. 


Roc. 

The  Roc,  when  it  flew,  took  him  up,  —  so  high,  he 
could  see  no  ground :  he  was  swept  through  the  clouds, 
and  great  clouds  were  below  him.  Then  at  last, 
swooping  down  in  great  circles  over  sea  and  over  land, 
the  Roc  alighted  in  a  barren  valley  hemmed  in  on  all 
sides  by  high  mountains.  From  the  account  Sindbad 
gave  of  it,  it  must  have  been  very  much  like  the  famous 
valley  of  Yosemite  in  California.  Yet  I  don't  think  it 
was  the  Yosemite.  However,  he  untied  himself  hastily  ; 
and  presently  after,  the  Roc,  having  taken  up  a  huge 
serpent  in  his  beak,  soared  away. 

Sindbad  found  himself  without  food.  There  were 
no  houses  in  this  mountain  valley ;  there  were  no 
fruits ;  huge  serpents  in  plenty,  and  —  strange  to  say 
—  great  store  of  diamonds  scattered  all  over  the  sur- 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  63 

face  of  the  ground.  But  all  around  him  the  cliffs  were 
so  steep  that  there  was  no  hope  of  climbing  away  ;  least 
of  all,  if  he  should  load  himself  with  diamonds.  It  was 
a  dreadful  night  he  passed  after  his  air-voyage  tied  to 
the  leg  of  the  Roc.  There  was  no  shelter  except  in  a 
crevice  of  the  cliffs  —  too  narrow  for  the  great  serpents 
to  creep  in.  The  next  day,  as  he  wandered  about,  faint 
with  hunger,  he  suddenly  felt  a  shock  of  something  fall- 
ing on  the  ground  near  him  ;  and,  on  looking  carefully, 
he  found  that  this  falling  matter  was  nothing  less  than 
big  rounds  of  uncooked  beef.  He  saw,  too,  that  these 
fragments  of  meat  were  directly  pounced  upon  by  gi- 
gantic eagles,  which  swooped  down  and  bore  them  off. 
He  remembered  then  to  have  heard  of  some  distant  val- 
ley where  the  diamond-collectors  took  this  way  to  gather 
jewels  they  could  not  otherwise  reach  —  the  diamonds 
sticking  fast  in  the  flesh,  and  the  eagles  bearing  all  to 
their  nests  in  the  cliffs,  where  the  merchants  found 
them.  Marco  Polo,  if  I  remember  rightly,  tells  this 
story  too. 

Seeing  how  the  case  stood,  Sindbad  gathered  a  great 
package  of  the  finest  diamonds  to  be  found — tied  the 
package  to  his  girdle  in  front ;  then  tied  a  round  of 
beef  to  his  girdle  behind,  and  lay  down  flat,  with  his 
face  to  the  ground.  He  trusted  that  some  great  eagle 
would  lift  him,  and  the  meat,  and  diamonds,  and  all. 

And  there  came  a  mammoth  bird,  —  not  so  large  as  a 
roc,  by  any  means,  —  but  yet  equal  to  the  work.  Slowly 
but  surely,  Sindbad  was  borne  up  by  it  from  the  earth  — 
borne  away  to  the  cliffs,  and  dropped  into  a  nest  of 
young  eaglets,  where  the  diamond-searchers  were  in 
waiting  to  snatch  the  jewels. 


64  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

You  may  be  sure  they  were  very  much  surprised  to 
see  Sindbad,  and  were  astonished  when  he  showed  them 
the  treasures  in  his  package.  However,  he  gave  them 
a  generous  share,  — visited  their  city,  saw  the  king,  —  as 
was  usual  for  strangers,  —  and  finally  sailed  away  with 
a  rich  load  of  jewels  for  home.  And  this  was  the  end 
of  his  second  voyage. 

On  his  third  voyage,  this  unlucky  Sindbad  was 
wrecked  again.  He  saves  his  life,  indeed,  and  with 
a  few  of  his  comrades  wanders  upon  the  shores  of  a 
strange  country,  where  at  last  he  enters  the  doors  of 
a  great  palace.  It  must  have  been  a  rude  palace ;  for 
there  were  bones  of  men  upon  the  floor,  —  fresh  bones 
too ;  and  a  great  fire  in  the  palace  chimney-place,  and 
fearful-looking  spits.  Sindbad  and  the  men  with  him 
crouched  in  the  corner  ;  and  the  walls  around  them 
shook,  as  the  master  of  the  palace  came  stalking  in. 
He  had  a  horrible  figure.  If  you  have  ever  read 
Homer,  you  must  remember  the  great  one-eyed  Cy- 
clop, who  lived  in  a  cavern,  and  devoured  the  compan- 
ions of  Ulysses.  Well,  this  monstrous  creature,  into 
whose  palace  Sindbad  had  wandered,  was  one-eyed,  like 
the  Cyclop,  and  far  more  hideous  to  look  upon.  His 
teeth  were  long  and  pointed,  and  his  ears  were  like  the 
ears  of  an  elephant,  and  flapped  upon  his  shoulders. 

You  may  be  sure  he  saw  these  castaway  sailors  with 
that  great  red  eye  of  his  ;  and  presently  coming  up  and 
pinching  one  or  two  between  his  fingers,  to  find  the  fat- 
test of  them,  he  picked  out  one  ;  then  he  lifted  him 
as  a  cook  would  lift  a  partridge,  and  thrust  him  through 
with  one  of  those  cruel  spits.  The  sailors  knew  then 
what  the  fire  meant,  and  the  men's  bones ;    and  I  sus- 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  65 

pect  Sindbad  must  have  been  glad  he  was  in  so  lean 
condition ;  for  he  had  been  one  of  the  first  this  mon- 
strous creature  had  taken  in  hand. 

Having  eaten,  the  monster  slept,  —  they  generally 
sleep  pretty  soundly,  —  though  his  snoring  was  some- 
thing dreadful  to  listen  to.  Sindbad  and  the  men  with 
him  crept  slily  out  from  their  corner,  while  the  monster 
slept ;  and,  putting  eight  or  nine  of  the  iron  spits  in  the 
fire  until  they  were  well  heated,  thrust  them  all  at  once 
into  the  one  eye  that  was  in  the  middle  of  the  giant's 
forehead.  Then  they  all  made  for  the  shore  with  as 
much  haste  as  they  could.  They  put  together  rafts  out 
of  timbers  lying  there  —  dreading  every  moment  lest 
the  blinded  giant  should  find  his  way  to  them.  They 
finished  their  rafts,  however,  and  had  pushed  off,  when, 
with  a  howling  that  echoed  all  along  the  shores,  they 
saw  the  giant  striding  toward  them,  —  led  by  another, 
and  followed  by  some  half-dozen  others.  In  the  Greek 
story  —  as  you  will  find  when  you  come  to  read  it  — 
there  were  only  three  of  the  Cyclops  family  —  which 
seems  quite  enough.  This  company  of  Eastern  giants 
did  not  reach  the  shore  till  Sindbad  and  his  friends  had 
paddled  a  long  way  off :  but  they  were  not  safe  ;  for  the 
giants  began  pelting  them  with  stones,  and  battered 
their  rafts  in  pieces.  Somehow  Sindbad  saved  himself 
upon  a  log,  and  drifted  into  a  far-away  bay,  where  he 
landed  with  one  or  two  companions.  He  had  a  won- 
derful escape  here  from  huge  serpents,  who  devoured 
the  men  with  him  ;  and,  from  a  tall  tree  into  which  he 
had  climbed,  he  sees  a  ship  off  shore,  and  waves  his 
turban,  and  is  seen,  and  is  taken  off,  and  carried  to  his 
home  again,  — managing  somehow  to  carry  a  great  deal 


66  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

of  money  back  with  him  from  this  voyage,  as  he  did 
from  all  the  others. 

He  m.akes  seven  voyages  in  all,  of  which  he  tells  the 
story  in  seven  succeeding  days,  to  that  old  porter 
Hindbad,  of  whom  I  spoke  in  the  beginning.  And  he 
not  only  tells  the  stories  to  Hindbad ;  but  he  gives 
him  a  bag  of  golden  coin  every  time  he  has  finished  a 
story  of  a  voyage.  I  presume  that  Hindbad  thought 
them  very  excellent  stories,  and  would  have  dearly  liked 
to  hear  more  of  them. 

And  he  is  not  the  only  one  who  has  thought  them 
good.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  half  of  his  wonderful 
adventures.  Once,  when  cast  away,  he  comes,  with  the 
sailors  who  were  saved  with  him,  upon  another  Roc's 
Q^gg  ;  which  his  companions  —  never  having  seen  one 
before  —  commence  hewing  in  pieces.  In  a  moment 
the  air  is  darkened  ;  the  great  birds,  whose  nests  these 
wanderers  have  disturbed,  hang  over  them  like  a  cloud  ; 
and  when  they  would  escape  by  taking  to  their  boats, 
the  birds,  like  the  great  Cyclops,  take  huge  rocks,  and 
sailing  in  the  air  above  the  ships,  drop  their  burden, 
and  make  a  wreck  of  the  vessels. 

That  lucky  Sindbad  escapes,  as  he  always  manages  to 
do  ;  but  in  the  new  lands  to  which  he  is  floated  upon  a 
piece  of  the  wreck,  he  finds  one  of  the  strangest  of  all 
his  adventures.  The  trees  are  beautiful,  and  the  streams 
of  water  ;  there  are  sweet-smelling  flowers  too  ;  and  in 
this  country,  which  seems  as  if  it  were  altogether  only  a 
pleasant  garden,  he  meets  an  old  man,  with  long  white 
beard,  and  deep-set  prying  eyes,  limping  along  by  the 
bank  of  a  stream.  Sindbad,  at  the  beckoning  of  this 
droll-looking  old  man,  takes  him  on  his  shoulders  to  help 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  69 

him  across  the  stream.  But  no  sooner  is  he  upon  Sind- 
bad's  back  than  his  legs  seem  to  grow  long,  and  cling 
about  the  poor  sailor,  and  his  fingers  stretch  out  into 
claws  that  hold  him  fast ;  and  he  settles  to  his  place 
upon  Sindbad's  shoulders  as  if  he  grew  there.  Sindbad 
stoops  for  the  old  man  to  come  down  ;  but  the  old  man 
does  not  come  down  :  instead  of  it,  he  chuckles,  and 
gives  Sindbad  a  punch  in  his  ribs,  and  urges  him  to  go 
forward. 

And  forward  this  poor  sailor  of  Bagdad  is  compelled 
to  go  ;  over  hill  and  brook,  and  through  valleys,  and  past 
wide  plains,  —  by  noon,  by  night,  —  this  terrible  old  Man 
of  the  Sea  keeps  his  place,  and  comes  near  to  choking 
Sindbad  with  the  tightness  of  his  hug.  He  makes  Sind- 
bad stay  when  he  would  pluck  fruit  from  the  trees  ;  he 
warns  him  to  go  faster,  when,  through  fatigue,  he  halts 
and  trembles  under  this  terrible  load. 

Hindbad  —  being  a  porter  —  and  used  to  carrying  bur- 
dens on  his  shoulders,  must  have  listened  very  wonder- 
ingly  to  this  story  of  a  load  which  could  not  be  shaken 
off.  Had  it  been  a  cask  or  a  box,  there  would  have  been 
more  hope  ;  but  a  burden  in  the  shape  of  a  man  is  a 
very  hard  thing  to  shake  off. 

And  how  was  Sindbad  rid  of  him  at  last }  Why,  one 
day  (after  he  had  carried  the  old  man  a  week  or  more), 
he  saw  some  empty  gourds  lying  on  the  ground  ;  and, 
taking  one  of  them,  he  pressed  the  juice  —  from  some 
of  the  delicious  grapes  that  grew  all  around  —  into  it,  and 
then  hung  his  gourd  upon  a  tree.  The  juice  turned  into 
wine  after  some  days,  as  grape-juice  is  very  apt  to  do. 
And  when  he  came  to  drink  it,  —  being  faint  with  the 
continual  burden   of  that  horrible  Man   of  the  Sea,  — 


70  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

the  old  man  snuffed  the  wine,  and  beckoned  to  Sindbad 
to  give  him  a  taste  of  it.  And  he  took  another,  and  an- 
other, and  another  taste,  —  as  wine-drinkers  when  once 
started  are  inclined  to  do,  —  until  at  last  Sindbad  felt  the 
old  man  loosening  his  hold :  and  he  lay  down  with  him  : 
and  the  hold  was  loosened  more  and  more,  until  the  old 
man  had  fallen  off  from  his  shoulders  in  a  drunken  sleep. 
Then  Sindbad  seized  whatever  weapon  he  coald  find,  — 
stones,  I  presume,  —  and  made  an  end  of  his  tormentor. 

Sindbad  does  not  say  so  in  his  story  ;  but  I  think  this 
old  Man  of  the  Sea  belonged  to  a  dreadful  tribe  called 
Badd-Habbidtz,  stray  members  of  which  are  found  very 
often  in  the  East  nowadays,  and  sometimes  in  the  West. 
If  you  ever  meet  one,  I  advise  you  not  to  let  him  get 
settled  down  on  your  shoulders. 

Sindbad  prospers  again  when  once  he  has  shaken 
off  this  obstinate  old  man  :  he  makes  friends  in  that 
beautiful  country ;  gathers  great  cargoes  of  tea  and 
spices,  and  sails  back  with  new  and  richer  stores  than 
ever  to  the  dear  old  City  of  Bagdad. 

There  he  lived  always  afterward  in  a  princely  house 
(if  we  may  believe  those  who  made  the  pictures  for  the 
"  Arabian  Nights  "  ),  and  was  befriended  by  the  Caliph 
Haroun  al  Raschid,  who  certainly  lived  and  did  a  great 
many  wonderful  things  —  whatever  may  be  true  of  the 
voyaging  Sindbad  and  of  the  porter  Hindbad. 

Bagdad,  too,  was  a  real  city,  and  is  a  city  still.  You 
will  find  it  on  your  maps  of  Asia,  lying  a  little  eastward 
of  the  great  sandy  wastes  of  Arabia,  upon  the  banks 
of  the  river  Tigris,  which  is  a  branch  of  the  river 
Euphrates,  on  which,  as  tradition  says,  once  bloomed 
the  Garden  of  Paradise. 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 


71 


Sindbad  must  have  sailed  on  his  great  voyages  down 
through  the  Tigris,  —  then  through  the  Euphrates,  and 
so  out  into  the  Persian  Gulf.  You  can  go  there  now 
by  the  same  track  over 
which  Sindbad  carried 
home  his  treasures.  But 
I  fear  you  would  be  dis- 
appointed in  the  city. 
You  would  find  low  houses 
and  narrow  streets,  and  a 
Turkish  governor  in  red 
woollen  cap  in  place  of  the 
great  Caliph.  You  would 
find  the  palaces  and  grand 
temples  and  hanging  gar- 
dens ruined,  and  only  be 
reminded  of  the  days  of 
Arabian  Nights  by  the 
blazing  noonday  heats,  by 

the  camels  coming  in  with  their  burdens,  by  the  waving 
palm-trees,  and  by  the  tomb,  which  is  still  standing,  of 
the  beautiful  Zobeide,  who  was  the  favorite  wife  of  the 
great  Caliph. 

For  my  part,  I  am  content  to  stay  away  from  the 
Turkish  city  of  Bagdad  of  to-day.  I  am  sure  that  the 
sight  of  its  outlying  valleys  —  whatever  herds  of  sheep 
and  cattle  might  be  feeding  on  them  —  would  not  be 
equal  to  the  image  I  have  in  mind  when  I  read  the  Vis- 
ion of  Mirza  ;  ^  and  in  the  city  itself,  I  am  quite  sure  that 
I  should  miss  the  great  stretch  of  brilliant  streets  — 

1  I  counsel  all  my  young  readers  to  find  and  read  the  delightful  paper  of  Addi- 
son's in  the  Spectator,  with  this  title., 


Ruined  Temple  at  Bagdad. 


72 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


the  jewelled  palaces — the  troops  of  laden  camels — the 
flashing  cimeters  —  the  rustle  of  silks  —  the  fair  Per- 
sians—  the  veiled  princesses  —  the  Shahs  and  Schah- 
riars  —  the  delightful  Zobeides, — which  come  into  my 
thought  when  I  read  the  "  Arabian-Nights  "  stories  of 
the  times  of  the  magnificent  Haroun  al  Raschid. 


IV. 

GOLDSMITH'S  WORK. 
:^  Vicar  and  his  Family. 

WHO,  pray,  has  not  read  that  dehghtful  old  story 
about  a  certain  Dr.  Primrose,  who  was  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  ?  Was  it  in  the  Sunday-school  library 
that  we  first  came  upon  it  ?  —  or  was  it  on  the  book- 
shelves of  some  darling  old  aunt  who  kept  it  as  one  of 
the  treasures  of  her  school-days  ?  For  it  is  an  old  book  : 
our  grandmothers  read  it,  and  may-be  our  great-grand- 
mothers ;  and  I  think  it  is  quite  certain  that  our  grand- 
children will  read  it  too. 

There  are  skipping-places  in  it,  to  be  sure ;  such  are 
some  of  the  long  talks  about  second  marriages,  which 
don't  concern  young  people  much  ;  and  such  is  the  page- 
long  speech  about  kings  and  republics  and  free  govern- 
ment:  but  with  these  taken  out,  or  skipped  over, — as 
well  as  the  Greek,  which  has  no  business  there, — what 
a  delightful  story  it  is  ! 

One  grows  into  the  kindliest  sort  of  companionship 
with  the  good  Dr.  Primrose  and  his  family,  and  follows 

n 


74 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


their  fortunes  as  if  they  were  fortunes  of  his  own,  and 
never  forgets  them,  —  let  him  live  as  long  as  he  may. 

Naturally  we  don't  think  as  much  of  Mrs.  Primrose 
as  we  do  of  the  Doctor  ;  but  that  happens  in  a  good  many 
families  where  we  love  to  go.  She  is  a  little  too  proud 
of  her  daughters,  —  who  are  fine  girls,  both  of  them,  — 
and  a  little  too  much  bent  upon  holding  up  her  head  in 
the  world. 


Mrs.  Primrose's  Fine  Girls. 


Of  course  it  is  a  very  good  thing  to  hold  up  one's 
head,  and  better  still  to  be  able  to  do  so  with  a  clear 
conscience ;  but  we  don't  like  to  encounter  people  who 
want  to  impress  everybody  they  meet — Avith  a  notion 
of  their  great  importance.  There  was  a  little  of  this  in 
Mrs.  Primrose,  but  not  a  bit  of  it  in  the  Doctor. 

He  was  of  good  fortune  when  the  story  opens  ;  and 
besides  those  two  daughters,  Sophia  and  Olivia,  had  two 
sons,  George  and  Moses,  as  well  as  a  couple  of  younger 
boys,  who  don't  have  much  to  do  with  the  story;  and 
for  aught  that  appears,  they  may  be  young  boys  some- 
where in  England  still. 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK.  7$ 

Not  much  happens  to  interest  one  while  the  Doctor  is 
comfortably  rich.  He  says  himself,  that  the  most  im- 
portant event  of  a  twelvemonth  was  the  moving  from  the 
blue  chamber  to  the  brown  ;  that  surely  would  not  con- 
cern young  fellows  who  have  no  moving  to  do.  The  son 
George  does,  indeed,  fall  in  love  with  a  very  nice  girl,  — 
Miss  Wilmot,  who  has  a  snug  fortune  of  her  own ;  and 
as  Miss  Wilmot  has  a  strong  fancy  for  George,  it  is 
counted  a  settled  thing  between  them  ;  and,  indeed,  the 
marriage-day  was  fixed. 

But  Dr.  Primrose  (I  call  him  Doctor  because  Mr. 
Jenkinson,  an  important  character  in  the  story,  always 
did,  and  I  am  sure  if  he  had  lived  among  our  American 
colleges  he  would  have  been  a  doctor)  —  Dr.  Primrose, 
I  say,  could  not  get  over  his  love  for  talk  about  the 
wickedness  of  second  marriages,  in  which  Mr.  Wilmot, 
the  father  of  the  charming  Arabella,  did  not  agree  with 
him  ;  and  as  they  waxed  warm  one  day,  Mr.  Wilmot  —  I 
dare  say,  getting  the  worst  of  the  argument  —  let  slip  the 
fact  that  the  Doctor  was  a  beggar,  —  since  the  business 
man  who  had  been  intrusted  with  his  property  had 
become  bankrupt,  and  had  fled  from  the  country. 

This  was  an  ugly  thing  for  Mr.  Wilmot  to  say,  and  a 
rough  way  of  pushing  his  cause ;  but  it  was  none  the 
less  true.  And  this  fact  and  the  quarrel  broke  off  the 
match ;  and  son  George,  in  high  dudgeon,  set  off  to  seek 
his  fortune  otherwheres. 

Nor  was  this  the  worst :  the  good  Doctor  had  to  leave 
his  fine  house,  and  take  a  poor  parish  in  a  distant  part  of 
the  country,  with  a  cottage  so  small  that  there  could  be 
no  moving  every  spring  from  the  blue  chamber  to  the 
brown.     There  were  no  chambers  to  move  into.     But 


76  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

out  of  this  change  of  home,  and  the  griefs  and  trials  that 
came  with  it,  grew  all  those  events  which  have  made  the 
history  of  the  old  Vicar  so  charming  a  one  that  it  has 
been  conned  and  read  in  ten  thousand  households  all 
over  the  world. 

Can  I  tell  you  what  those  events  were  in  a  half-hour 
of  talk  ? 

Ah,  well !  it  will  be  spoiling  one  of  the  tenderest  of 
stories ;  and  yet  I  will  try  to  catch  so  much  of  the  pith 
and  of  the  point  of  it  as  shall  make  you  eager  to  taste 
for  yourself,  and  "at  first  hands,"  the  delicate  humor 
and  the  charming  flow  of  that  old-fashioned  novel  of  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield.  I  call  it  a  novel,  though  it  is  as 
unlike  as  possible  to  the  work  that  our  modern  novel- 
writers  do. 

Mr,  Burchell  and  the  Squire. 

Mrs.  Primrose  —  poor  woman  —  who  had  loved  to  put 
on  airs  in  her  large  house,  did  not  get  over  the  love  in 
the  small  house.  It  is  a  love  that  it  is  hard  for  anybody 
to  get  over,  if  they  begin  once  to  encourage  it.  .  But  the 
Doctor,  good  soul,  laughed  at  her  grand  dressing  and 
her  eagerness  to  show  off  her  daughters  in  the  old 
finery.  She  even  aims  at  something  like  style  in  going 
to  church,  by  rigging  up  the  two  plough-horses  so  that 
one  should  carry  the  boy  Moses  and  herself  with  the 
two  little  ones,  and  the  other  make  a  mount  for  the  two 
daughters.  Of  course  it  was  but  a  sorry  figure  they 
cut,  and  the  Doctor  had  his  laugh  at  them,  though  it  was 
on  a  Sunday,  Yet  when  a  middle-aged  woman  has  an 
eye  for  ''  style,"  it  is  not  easy  to  laugh  her  out  of  it ;  and 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK. 


77 


Mrs.  Primrose  was  set  on  to  this  and  a  good  many  other 
Uke  manoeuvres  by  a  hope  she  had  of  making  conquest 
of  a  certain  Squire  Thornhill,  —  who  was  their  landlord 
and  the  great  man  of  the  neighborhood,  —  and  of  match- 
ing him  with  one  of  her  daughters.  He  was  of  fair  age, 
lived  freely  in  a  grand  house,  rode  to  the  hounds,  and 
sent  presents  of  game  to  the  Primrose  girls,  —  much  to 


Mrs.   Primrose's  "Style." 


the  delight  of  their  mamma  ;  who  banters  Olivia  specially 
on  these  attentions,  and  wonders  the  Doctor  —  simple 
soul  —  cannot  see  through  it  all.  She  has  even  hopes 
of  capturing  the  Squire's  chaplain  —  or  the  man  who 
passes  as  chaplain  —  for  her  daughter  Sophia  ;  who  is  a 
sweeter  girl  than  Olivia,  —  though  not  so  coquettish  and 
not  taking  so  much  after  the  mother. 


78  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

They  say  in  the  neighborhood  that  Squire  Thornhill 
is  indebted  for  his  easy  way  of  living  to  the  bounty  of 
an  eccentric  uncle,  —  not  much  older  than  himself,  but 
more  grave,  living  much  in  London,  not  well  known 
down  in  the  country,  but  spoken  of  always  with  very 
much  awe. 

The  Primrose  family,  moreover,  make  the  acquaintance 
of  a  Mr.  Burchell,  —  whom  they  meet  first,  I  think,  upon 
the  highway ;  and  who  does  good  service  by  saving 
Sophia  from  drowning,  when  she  had  fallen,  one  day, 
into  the  river  that  ran  near  by.  He  is  a  shabby-genteel 
person  in  appearance,  but  well  instructed,  and  can  talk 
by  the  hour  with  the  Doctor  about  his  hobbies  ;  and  he 
brings  little  gifts  for  the  boys ;  indeed,  if  he  had  been 
rich  and  better-looking,  Mrs.  Primrose  would  have  been 
half-disposed  to  favor  him  as  a  proper  match  for  Sophia 
— provided  the  chaplain  should  fail  her. 

A  curious  thing  is,  that  Mr.  Burchell  doesn't  talk  in 
the  highest  terms  of  Squire  Thornhill ;  and  another 
curious  thing  is,  that  he  avoids  any  occasion  of  meeting 
him  at  the  Vicar's  cottage  —  all  which  Madame  Primrose 
places  to  the  account  of  the  poor  man's  jealousy.  Maybe 
so ;  but  the  Doctor  thought  well  of  him  and  of  his  talk, 
and  so  did  Moses  and  the  boys ;  and  it  always  seemed 
to  me  that  Sophia  —  though  she  never  said  so  —  looked 
kindly  on  him,  and  was  not  so  much  disturbed  by  his 
lack  of  fine  clothes  as  Olivia  or  her  mother. 

They  were  all  flustered  and  provoked,  however,  when 
they  learned,  in  an  accidental  way,  that  Burchell,  by 
some  talk  and  letters  of  his,  had  prevented  the  two  girls 
from  carrying  out  a  plan  they  had  formed  of  going  up 
to    London   with   a   couple   of   lady  friends  of   Squire 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK.  79 

Thornhill's.  These  town  ladies  had  been  down  to  the 
country,  and  paid  a  visit  to  the  Vicarage,  very  much  to 
the  dehght  of  Madame  Primrose,  who  could  never  have 
done  with  admiring  their  fme  feathers  and  silks.  It 
would  be  a  splendid  thing  for  the  dear  girls  to  go  up  to 
London  with  them  ! 

The  Doctor  did  not,  indeed,  think  quite  so  highly  of 
these  town  ladies ;  but  what  business  had  Mr.  Burchell 
to  interfere,  and  by  his  misrepresentations  to  defeat 
what  would  have  been  such  a  pleasure  to  the  girls  t 
'Twas  a  shabby  intermeddling  in  his  family  affairs  ;  and 
he  told  Mr.  Burchell  so  with  some  warmth.  And  Mr. 
Burchell  was  warm  too ;  and  what  business  had  the 
Doctor  to  be  prying  into  the  contents  of  private  letters 
of  his }  In  short,  they  made  a  sharp  family  quarrel  of 
it  with  Mr.  Burchell,  and  Burchell  took  his  stick  and 
walked  away.  This  was  the  last  they  saw  of  him  for 
a  long  time. 

Did  Sophia  possibly  look  after  him  with  a  little 
yearning  and  repenting }  I  used  to  ask  myself  that 
question  when  I  read  the  story  in  my  young  days  ;  but 
I  don't  think  she  did  —  certainly  not  at  the  moment. 

Well,  the  Doctor's  money  affairs  were  not  getting  on 
well  :  I  think  Madame  Primrose  and  her  love  for  good 
style  had  something  to  do  with  it.  Good  style,  as  it  is 
called,  has  very  much  to  do  then,  and  always,  with  —  not 
getting  on  well. 

The  good  folks  of  the  family  had  sent  Moses  off  to 
the  Fair  to  make  sale  of  the  colt ;  but  Moses  was  horri- 
bly cheated,  and  came  back  with  only  a  gross  of  green 
spectacles  —  of  which,  you  may  be  sure,  he  never  heard 
the  last.     The  good  Doctor  thought  to  mend  matters  by 


So  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

taking  the  only  remaining  horse  himself.  The  rogues 
would  never  cheat  Jiim:  but  they  did,  and  very  badly 
too ;  for  he  brought  back  only  a  worthless  bit  of  paper, 
which  was  a  draft  on  Neighbor  Flamborough,  who  had 
two  bouncing  daughters,  —  one  of  whom  Moses  was 
tender  upon.  The  Vicar  had  taken  this  draft  from  the 
man  Jenkinson,  who  had  talked  Greek  with  the  Doctor, 
and  praised  a  book  he  had  written,  and  so  made  the 
good  man  believe  that  he,  —  Jenkinson,  was  the  worthi- 
est and  most  benevolent  creature  in  the  world. 

Moses  had  the  laugh  now.  But  it  was  no  laughing 
time  for  the  family :  they  were  growing  poorer  and 
poorer.  Mrs.  Primrose's  "style"  was  getting  uncomfort- 
ably pinched  ;  and  the  match  with  the  Squire  didn't  get 
on  :  so  she  thought  to  spur  his  attentions  by  setting  up  a 
new  claimant  for  Miss  Olivia,  in  Farmer  Williams,  who 
lived  hard  by.  This  had  not  gone  very  far,  when,  one 
day,  the  boys  ran  in,  crying  out,  —  "  Olivia  is  gone  !  " 

And  so  she  had  —  in  a  coach  :  it  was  a  runaway  of  a 
very  bad  kind.  Was  Burchell  the  criminal,  or  who } 
The  old  gentleman  seized  his  pistols,  and  would  have 
made  after  the  wretch,  but  his  wife  and  poor  weeping 
Sophy  quieted  him. 

It  came  out  shortly  after,  that  Thornhill  was  the  man  ; 
and  that  he  had  made  a  mock  marriage,  and  had  made 
two  or  three  such  before.  And  yet  the  villain  had  the 
daring  to  call  upon  the  Doctor  with  explanations  ;  but  the 
good  man  blazed  upon  him  with  all  the  rage  of  injured 
innocence.  The  Squire  was  cool  ;  for  Dr.  Primrose 
owed  him  large  debts,  which  there  was  no  means  of 
paying. 

Olivia  found  her  way  back,  broken-hearted,  and  was 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK. 


8i 


warmly  greeted  by  the  father,  though  she  met  only  a 
half-welcome  from  Mrs.  Primrose. 

It  came  to  a  prison,  at  last,  for  the  good  Vicar ;  for  in 
those  days  people  who  could  not  or  would  not  pay  their 
debts  were  clapped  into  prisons.  The  family  of  the 
good  man  would  not  leave  him,  but  journeyed  up  to  the 
town  where  the  jail  lay  —  though  it  was  winter  weather, 
the  ground  covered  in  snow,  and  poor  Sophia  just  recov- 


Going  to  Prison. 


ering  from  a  slow  fever.  The  parishioners  of  the  Doctor 
would,  indeed,  have  snatched  him  from  the  keeping  of 
the  officers  of  the  law,  as  they  set  out  on  their  journey ; 
but  the  good  Vicar  in  his  earnest  way  checked  them,  and 
bade  them  remember  that  without  law  there  could  be  no 
justice,  and  they  must  respect  what  the  law  commanded. 


82  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


What  Happened  in  Prison. 

For  a  long  time  Dr.  Primrose  lay  in  that  dreary  jail ; 
his  family  paying  him  frequent  visits,  and  he  by  kindly 
talk  winning  upon  the  company  of  his  fellow-prisoners 

—  among  whom  happened  to  be  that  very  Jenkinson  who 
had  so  deceived  him  on  his  visit  to  the  horse-fair,  but 
who  now  at  last  seemed  repentant. 

Surely  it  was  a  very  sorry  time  for  the  poor  Primrose 
family  :  the  father  in  prison  for  debts  he  could  find  no 
means  to  pay;  the  oldest  son  a  wanderer  —  none  knew 
where  ;  Olivia  a  poor  disgraced  creature  ;  and  to  add  to 
the  sum  of  troubles,  it  is  reported  that  the  lawless 
Squire  Thornhill  is  to  marry  the  charming  Miss  Wilmot, 
who  had  been  once  the  promised  bride  of  the  poor  wan- 
dering George  Primrose.  This  seemed  enough  to  break 
down  all  faith  in  that  Providence  whose  overwatching 
care  the  good  Vicar  had  always  preached.  Yet  still 
further  griefs  were  in  store  :  Sophia  —  poor  Sophia  — 
in  one  of  her  walks  into  the  country,  where  she  hoped 
to  catch  some  new  strength  and  bloom,  was  stolen  away 

—  gone,  none  knew  whither.  And,  as  if  to  crown  all, 
the  wandering  vagabond  George  returns  —  not  with 
honors,  but  a  prisoner,  with  shackles  upon  his  limbs. 
He  has  heard  of  the  wrong  done  his  poor  sister  Olivia ; 
in  his  anger,  he  has  challenged  Squire  Thornhill  to 
mortal  combat ;  he  has  resisted  the  servants  of  that 
base  master,  —  has  cut  one  down  with  his  sword. 

Indeed,  it  is  a  sorry  group  in  that  prison  :  the  son  a 
felon  ;  the  Doctor  a  hopeless  debtor ;  Olivia  disgraced 
and  broken-hearted  ;  Sophia  gone  ! 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK.  83 

That  was  the  place  in  this  old  story  for  tears  —  if 
anybody  had  them  ;  and  a  good  many  did  have  them ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  will  have  them  in  years  to  come. 
But  we  fellows  didn't  stop  there  —  for  all  the  crying. 
We  felt  sure  something  better  was  to  happen.  And  it 
did,  —  it  did. 

First  of  all,  Sophia  was  brought  back,  rescued ;  and 
who  do  you  think  brought  her  back }  Why,  Mr.  Bur- 
chell,  —  old  seedy  Burchell ;  and  the  family  —  even  to 
Mrs.  Primrose  —  cannot  help  thanking  the  man,  not- 
withstanding his  shabby  clothes. 

Mr.  Jenkinson,  too,  proves  a  friend  at  last  —  is  ready 
to  swear  that  the  marriage  of  Olivia  to  Squire  Thornhill 
was  not  a  mock  marriage  at  all,  but  a  real  marriage  ;  for 
he  himself  had  brought  the  priest  who  went  through  the 
ceremony. 

The  good  Doctor  was  enraptured  at  this  ;  and  Mrs. 
Primrose  went  up  and  kissed  poor,  shrinking  Olivia  — 
for  the  first  time.  (I  never  liked  Mrs.  Primrose  over- 
much.) 

After  this,  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot  comes  in  to  see  the 
poor  Vicar,  and  is  much  taken  aback  to  find  George 
there :  she  blushes,  and  is  disturbed ;  for,  to  tell  truth, 
she  has  never  loved  any  one  else ;  and  when  occasion 
permitted,  I  dare  say  she  told  him  so  ;  for  they  were 
hand  in  hand,  in  a  corner,  before  much  time  had  passed. 

Squire  Thornhill  came  in, — for  what  reason  I  don't 
know  exactly,  —  but  got  hard  looks  from  everybody ; 
most  of  all  from  Mr.  Burchell,  whom  he  seemed  to  fear 
greatly. 

Can  you  fancy  why  he  should  .**  —  It  was  all  clear 
enough  presently  ;  for  this   Mr.   Burchell  —  old,  seedy 


84  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

Burchell  —  was  none  other  than  the  famous  and  wealthy 
and  eccentric  Sir  WilUam  Thornhill,  on  whose  favor  the 
reckless  young  squire  was  dependent.  However,  the 
uncle  let  his  nephew  off  easily,  but  compelled  him  to 
acknowledge  publicly  his  marriage  with  Miss  Olivia. 

Then  came  old  father  Wilmot,  with  the  story  that  the 
man  of  business  who  had  run  away  with  the  Vicar's 
fortune  had  been  captured,  and  there  was  good  chance 
that  all  his  property  would  be  restored.  George,  too, 
would  be  cleared  from  imprisonment :  at  least,  Sir 
William  Thornhill  said  he  would  bring  it  about;  and 
nobody  doubted  that  he  would. 

Of  course  the  Primrose  family  had  now  reason  to  be 
happy ;  and  they  all  looked  so  except  Sophia,  who  wore 
a  very  sad  countenance.  The  truth  is,  when  Mr.  Bur- 
chell had  brought  her  back  to  her  father,  the  good 
Doctor  —  knowing  her  preserver  only  as  Mr.  Burchell  — 
had  told  him  in  his  gratitude,  that,  as  he  had  rescued 
her,  he  deserved  to  possess  her,  —  to  which  Mr.  Burchell 
had  not  made  much  reply. 

But  now  Mr.  Burchell  —  that  is,  Sir  William  Thorn- 
hill, —  with  all  the  dignity  that  should  belong  to  a  great 
baronet,  said  that  he  was  glad  to  see  prosperity  restored 
to  this  Primrose  family;  —  that  he  had  a  great  respect 
for  the  good  Doctor  (he  didn't  say  any  thing  about  Mrs. 
Primrose) ;  —  that  he  was  glad  to  see  so  many  happy 
faces  about  him,  and  that  the  only  exceptions  were  the 
faces  of  Miss  Sophia  and  Mr.  Jenkinson.  He  thought 
Jenkinson  deserved  well  of  the  Vicar ;  and  he  pro- 
posed that  the  good  man  should  give  Sophia  to  him  as 
a  bride,  and  he  himself,  he  said,  would  add  a  wedding 
portion  of  five  hundred  pounds. 


GOLDSMITH'S    WORK.  85 

But  Sophia's  face  did  not  clear  up  at  all :  nay,  there 
were  angry  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  vowed  with  a  pitiful, 
low  voice  —  that  she  would  not  have  Mr.  Jenkinson  at 
all,  —  never  ! 

"Why,  then,"  said  Sir  William  Thornhill,  "I  must 
take  the  dear  girl  myself  ;  "  and  with  that  he  snatched 
her  to  his  arms. 

Could  there  be  a  prettier  ending  to  that  story  of  the 
Primroses  .'*  No  wonder  it  charmed  us  ;  no  wonder  it 
has  charmed  thousands. 

And  what  became  of  Moses  .-*  Why,  Moses  married 
one  of  the  bouncing  Miss  Flamboroughs,  of  course. 
And  ril  warrant  you  that  Mrs.  Primrose  let  everybody 
know,  within  twenty  miles  round,  that  her  daughter 
became  Lady  Thornhill ;  and  I  will  warrant  further,  that 
Sir  William  never  took  to  his  mother-in-law  very 
strongly,  and  never  enjoyed  her  gooseberry-wine  so 
much  —  as  when  he  drank  it  outside  her  own  house. 

Poor  GoUy. 

And  was  there  really  a  Dr.  Primrose  who  told  this 
story  about  his  own  family,  and  about  the  vanities  of  his 
wife,  and  who  married  his  daughter  to  Mr.  Burchell  — 
otherwise  known  as  Sir  William  Thornhill } 

No  —  no  —  no  ! 

It  is  as  little  true  of  any  one,  as  that  Master  Aladdin 
found  a  lamp  which  worked  the  wonders  we  read  of  in 
the  chapter  that  went  before  this. 

The  person  who  really  told  this  story  of  Dr.  Primrose 
was  an  Irishman,  of  the  name  of  Goldsmith,  M'ho  used 
to  be  talked  of  among  those   who  knew  him   best   as 


86 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


"poor  Goldy."     He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  marked 

with  old  traces  of  small-pox,  with  a  quick,  clear  black 

eye,  and  head  almost  bald. 

Among  his  friends  was  the  famous  painter  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  who  made  a 
picture  of  him,  from  which 
most  of  the  engravings  are 
made,  and  which  I  am  sure  was 
not  a  little  flattered.  I  give  it 
to  you  here. 

Leslie,  the  painter,  said  he 
saw  in  it  all  the  genius  that 
went  to  the  **  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field," and  the  ''  Deserted  Vil- 
lage ; "    and    I    dare    say    Sir 

Joshua  Reynolds  painted  it  (as  he  should  have  done) 

with   the    memory  of  all  the  best   things    poor    Goldy 

had  done,  quickening  his  skill,  and    lightening  up  his 

touches   on    the  canvas.     Without    this    knowing    and 

feeling  of  a  man's  inner  life, 

good  portraits  are  never  made. 
I   said    that    Goldsmith  was 

nearly  bald-headed,  and   he  so 

appears  in  Reynolds's  picture  ; 

but  it  was  the  custom  of  that 

day  —  the    latter   part    of    the 

last    century  —  to  wear  wigs  ; 

and  Goldsmith   almost  always 

wore  a  wig. 

And  now  you  shall  see  what  Bunbury's  Goldsmith 

his    quizzical    friend    Bunbury  made   of  his   face,  with 

the  wig  above  it,  and  with  his  upper  lip,  which  was  very 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK.  87 

protruding,  making  a  show  that  must  have  provoked 
Goldsmith;  yet  it  was  said  to  be  very  like  him.  He 
played  a  great  many  games  of  cards  with  his  friend 
Bunbury,  —  of  which  game  he  was  always  over-fond  ; 
but  I  think  he  would  never  have  forgiven  that  friend 
if  he  had  known  that  we  now,  more  than  a  century  later, 
should  be  looking  at  it,  and  calling  it  a  fair  picture 
of  him. 

As  he  loved  cards  and  gaming,  so  he  loved  wine  over- 
much, and  was  often  the  worse  for  it.  I  don't  mean  to 
say  that  he  went  so  far  as  to  make  a  sot  of  himself,  but 
that  he  lingered  often  and  often  over  tavern-tables  when 
he  might  have  been  doing  better  things.  And  remember 
in  excuse  for  him,  that  he  lived  in  days  when  almost 
everybody  drank  wine  in  taverns,  and  when  even  that 
great  man  Dr.  Johnson — who  was  also  a  friend  of  Gold- 
smith's—  sometimes  drank  so  much  as  to  forget  himself, 
and  to  make  his  great  figure  reel  along  the  walk  on  the 
way  to  his  chambers. 

Dr.  Johnson  was  the  great  literary  character  of  that 
day  (it  was  in  the  reign  of  George  II.  and  George 
III.),  and  wrote  the  best  Dictionary  of  the  English  Lan- 
guage—  until  Dr.  Webster  made  a  better  one;  and  it 
was  through  this  very  Dr.  Sam  Johnson,  that  the 
story  of  Dr.  Primrose,  I  have  told  you  of,  found  its  way 
first  to  the  printer's  hands. 

You  would  like  to  know  how  it  happened ;  and  it  is  a 
thing  you  ought  to  know.  Well  —  one  day.  Dr.  Johnson, 
being  at  dinner  with  Mrs.  Thrale,  who  was  a  great  friend 
of  Johnson's,  received  a  message  from  poor  Goldy,  say- 
ing that  he  was  in  distress,  and  "  would  the  Doctor  call 
round  and  see  him  ?  " 


88 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


Goldy  was  living,  at  that  time,  in  Wine-Office  Court, 
near  Fleet  Street ;  and  there  the  Doctor  went  to  see 
him,  having  sent  a  guinea  by  the  messenger  to  relieve 
any  pressing  trouble.  Goldy  had  used  the  guinea  to 
buy  (among  other  things)  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  was 
sitting  over  it  when  the  Doctor  came  in. 


Goldsmith's   Lodgings 

"I  put  the  cork  in  the  bottle,"  says  the  Doctor,  *'and 
begged  him  to  be  calm."  Then  he  learned  that  his 
landlady  was  threatening  him  for  his  rent,  and  that  the 
sheriffs  were  ready  to  pounce  upon  him.  He  took  a 
manuscript  from  his  drawer,  and  begged  the  Doctor  to 
sell  it  for  him.  This  was  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  —  that 
delightful  old  story  of  which  I  have  given  you  a  glimpse. 

Dr.  Johnson,  seeing  it  had  merit,  —  but  not,  I  think, 
seeing  all  its  merit  —  (for  it  is  not  much  like  Rasselas, 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK.  89 

which  was  a  story  by  Dr.  Johnson,  that  it  may  be  worth 
your  while  to  read)  went  out  with  it,  and  sold  it  for  sixty 
pounds. 

The  bookseller  who  bought  it  thought  so  little  of  it, 
that  the  story  lay  in  his  drawer  for  fifteen  months  before 
it  was  given  to  the  printer.  It  appeared  finally  in  1766, 
when  Goldsmith  was  thirty-eight  years  old.  The  critics 
did  not  speak  very  well  of  the  book  at  the  first :  some 
of  them  thought  it  worth  their  while  to  make  fun  of  the 
Primrose  family ;  but  it  grew  steadily  in  favor,  month 
by  month  and  year  by  year,  and  is  now  read  all  over  the 
world. 

A  great  German,  who  was  young  when  it  first  ap- 
peared, hit  upon  the  tale  some  four  years  after,  and  read 
it  with  delight  and  admiration  ;  and  seventy  years  later, 
when  he  read  it  again  with  renewed  delight,  he  told  a 
friend  how  much  its  first  reading  had  to  do  with  forming 
his  education.     This  great  German  was  Goethe. 

We  told  you  that  Goldsmith  was  in  distress  when  he 
wrote  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  beset  by  poverty. 
He  never  outlived  that  sort  of  distress  ;  for  though  the 
booksellers  have  received  thousands  and  thousands  of 
pounds  for  that  little  book,  only  the  first  paltry  sixty 
pounds  ever  went  into  the  pockets  of  the  author. 

I  do  not  think  he  would  ever  have  been  rich,  if  he  had 
received  thousands  for  it.  He  never  had  the  art  of 
husbanding  his  moneys,  and  never  knew  how  to  spend 
them  with  judgment.  His  heart  was  easily  touched  by 
any  story  of  suffering  ;  and  he  would  give  his  last  guinea 
to  a  begging  woman  in  the  street.  He  loved  dearly, 
too,  a  good  roistering  tavern  supper,  where  he  could  lift 
up  his  voice  to  a  great  roar  of  song ;  and  he  paid  for  a 


go  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

great  many  such  suppers,  from  which  richer  men  than 
he  slunk  away,  and  left  him  to  the  ''reckoning."  He 
had  a  passion  for  gaming,  too,  —  or,  as  we  should  say  — 
gambling,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken.  But,  before 
we  condemn  him  too  much  for  this,  let  us  remember 
that  in  that  day,  and  in  London,  gambling  was  common 
in  most  of  the  respectable  houses ;  and  the  great  orator 
Charles  James  Fox  would  lose,  and  did  lose,  as  much  as 
eleven  thousand  pounds  at  a  single  sitting. 

Another  fancy  —  and  a  queer  one  —  of  poor  Goldy's, 
was  his  passion  for  dress.  Looking  back  at  Bunbury's 
picture  of  him,  you  would  never  imagine  that  he  should 
have  a  love  for  silk  waistcoats,  and  velvet  breeches,  and 
ruffles,  and  plush  coats.  Yet  nothing  is  more  true ;  and 
•  there  are  old  bills  of  his  still  in  existence,  in  which  are 
set  down  in  fair  figures  —  and  very  long  ones — what  he 
paid  for  **  Ratteen  surtout,"  and  "•  Blue  Velvet  Suit,"  and 
"Silk  breeches,"  and  ''Queen's  blue  dress  suit,"  and 
"Princess  stuff  breeches." 

Yet  he  was  not  —  as  we  should  say  —  a  society  man. 
He  knew  few  ladies;  he  never  married  —  never  was 
near  marrying.  I  cannot  find,  by  any  hint,  that  he  ever 
loved  any  young  woman  better  than  any  old  one ;  or 
that  any  young  woman  ever  loved  him  tenderly.  Indeed, 
his  appearance  could  never  have  been  very  engaging ; 
and  his  manner  in  a  mixed  company  was  always  some- 
what clownish. 

Mr.  Boswell,  who  was  a  member  of  the  same  club  with 
him,  and  a  great  friend  of  Dr.  Johnson's  (whose  biogra- 
phy he  wrote),  was  much  more  of  a  society  man,  and 
much  less  of  a  man  in  every  other  way.  He  used  to 
sneer  at  "poor  Goldy  "  and  his  over-fine  clothes;  and  I 


GOLDSMITH'S    WORK.  9I 

think  would  never  have  been  seen  in  the  street  with 
him,  except  that  the  great  Dr.  Johnson  befriended  Gold- 
smith, and  patted  him,  in  his  bear-like  way,  upon  the 
back. 

Eis  Family  and  Death. 

I  have  said  that  no  Dr.  Primrose  ever  really  lived ; 
but  there  were  those  who  said  that  Goldsmith's  old 
father,  who  had  been  a  clergyman  in  Ireland,  and  who 
died  when  the  son  was  quite  young,  was  in  many  things 
very  like  to  Dr.  Primrose. 

It  was  almost  in  the  middle  of  Ireland  that  Goldsmith 
was  born,  —  not  far  from  Roscommon,  and  very  near  to 
Edgeworthtown  —  where  lived,  later,  that  good  woman 
Maria  Edgeworth,  whom  you  also  know  by  her  stories, 
and  to  whose  acquaintance  I  shall  introduce  you  in  a 
coming  chapter  of  this  little  book. 

He  has  not  the  best  of  schooling  in  that  little  village, 
nor  has  the  poor  parish  priest  —  his  father  —  much 
money  to  spare.  Later,  the  old  gentleman  gets  a  larger 
and  richer  parish,  — just  as  Dr.  Primrose  did  not,  —  and 
Oliver  has  a  better  chance.  But  he  loves  to  make  a 
song  for  village  idlers,  and  to  hear  them  roar  it  out  at 
a  tavern  table,  —  better  than  to  study. 

And,  after  his  father's  death,  he  becomes  more  of 
a  vagrant ;  sometimes  studying  ;  sometimes  tutoring  ; 
sometimes  trading  horses, — always  selling  one  for  less 
than  he  is  worth,  and  always  buying  one  for  more  than 
he  is  worth  —  as  most  people  do.  He  has  some  bicker- 
ings with  his  mother,  too, — who  does  not  like  vagrancy. 

At  one  time  he  goes   away  to    Cork,   and   actually 


92  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

engages  place  on  a  ship  for  America ;  but  this  plan 
gets  somehow  upset.  If  he  had  come  !  Do  you  think 
he  would  have  written  a  ''  Deserted  Village "  and  a 
"Vicar  of  Wakefield"  over  here?  Or  would  he  have 
slipped  into  practical  ways,  and  taught  the  violin,  or 
kept  a  country  tavern,  or  had  an  office  in  the  Custom 
House  ? 

On  one  of  his  jaunts  about  the  Irish  country,  he  found 
himself  belated  one  night  in  a  village  far  from  home ; 
and,  inquiring  after  a  public  house,  some  wag  directed 
him  to  a  gentleman's  place,  where  Goldy  went,  —  and 
ordered  out  his  horse,  —  and  fumed,  —  and  put  on  im- 
portant airs,  —  and  wanted  the  best  supper  that  could 
be  had ;  and  did  not  find  out  that  he  was  making  free 
with  the  home  of  a  private  gentleman  until  he  asked 
for  his  bill  next  morning.  Out  of  this  little  adventure 
grew  afterward  that  charming  play  of  '*  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,"  which  you  may  see  now,  from  time  to  time, 
upon  the  stage ;  and  which  is  better  worth  seeing  than 
most  of  the  comedies  of  to-day. 

By  the  help  of  a  rich  uncle,  he  gets  a  footing  after- 
ward at  college ;  later  he  goes  to  study  medicine  at 
Edinboro' ;  and  thence  he  goes  over  —  sent  by  the  same 
good  uncle  —  to  Leyden  in  Holland,  where  was  a  famous 
university. 

Who  knows  but  he  might  have  made  a  great  Doctor, 
if  he  had  kept  by  his  chances  there  t  But  he  doesn't : 
we  presently  find  him  wandering  about  Europe  —  sleep- 
ing in  stables,  in  religious  houses,  in  small  inns  —  pay- 
ing his  way  sometimes  by  the  music  he  made  with  the 
flute  he  took  with  him  ;  and  perhaps  it  was  over-use  of 
this  that  made  that  great  upper  lip  of  his  project  so 
much  as  you  see  it  does  in  Bunbury's  caricature. 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORK. 


93 


I  suppose  nobody  ever  went  through  Europe,  seeing 
so  much,  with  so  Httle  money,  as  Goldsmith.  You  will 
see  traces  of  this  wandering  in  his  poem  X)f  the  "  Trav- 
eller; "  and  here  and  there  in  the  "Bee," — which  was 
another  of  his  books ;  and  most  of  all,  in  the  wanderings 
of  George  Primrose,  in  the  ''Vicar." 

Coming  to  London  again,  he  tried  medicine,  with 
velvet  coats  and  big  wig  to  help  him  ;  but  he  never  did 
much  at  medicine.  He  tried  teaching ;  but  he  was  not 
steady  enough  and  patient  enough  to  get  on  well  at  this. 
Then  he  became  proof-reader  —  that  is  to  say,  —  he  cor- 
rected the  printed  sheets  for  Dr.  Richardson,  a  book- 
seller, who  had  written  novels  —  one  of  which,  called 
"  Clarissa,"  was  thought  superb,  and  everybody  read  it. 
Women  would  go  a  block 
out  of  their  way  to  see  the 
dear  and  famous  Dr.  Rich- 
ardson. And  now  scarce 
anybody  knows  about  "  Cla- 
rissa ; "  but  all  the  world 
knows  the  ''Vicar." 

After  this,  he  kept  by 
books ;  writing  some  which 
brought  him  more  money 
than  the  Primrose  story,  but 
not  nearly  so  well  known 
now.  He  wrote  so  well  that 
he  was  asked  to  join  the  club, — a  very  famous  club, 
where  he  used  to  meet  Burke  (another  great  Irishman 
and  an  orator),  and  Beauclerc,  and  Boswell,  and  Dr. 
Johnson,  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and  Garrick  the 
great  actor.     With  some  one  or  two  of  these,  he  might 


Goldy,  Johnson,  and   Boswell. 


94  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

have  been  seen  over  and  over  in  those  times,  walking 
along  Fleet  Street  in  London. 

They  all  liked  him  ;  and  there  were  times  when  they 
all  laughed  at  him.  He  never  would  have  made  a  Mr. 
Worldly-Wiseman,  such  as  comes  into  Bunyan's  story  of 
the  Pilgrim.  He  was  always  at  ''sixes  and  sevens." 
He  was  petulant  in  his  talk  often,  and  he  had  vanities 
that  crept  into  his  manner ;  but  his  vices  were  such  as 
disposed  one  more  to  laugh  than  to  be  shocked  by 
them.  And  in  all  he  wrote,  he  was  so  simple,  and  pure, 
and  healthy,  and  withal  there  was  such  play  of  delightful 
humor,  and  all  of  his  stories  were  so  tenderly  told,  that 
people  loved  him  for  his  books,  and  keep  on  loving  him 
for  them  to-day. 

Poor  and  lonely  in  his  chamber,  he  only  knew  cheer 
when  he  was  with  some  favorite  member  of  the  club,  or 
with  some  humble  companion  at  a  coffee-room  table. 
Poor  and  lonely  he  died  ;  with  few  friends  about  him, 
—  neither  mother,  nor  wife,  nor  brother,  nor  sister  near 
him  when  his  great  black  eye  grew  dim,  and  the  light  of 
it  passed  away  forever. 

The  great  statesman  Edmund  Burke,  when  the  tid- 
ings of  the  death  came  to  him,  burst  into  tears.  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  when  the  messenger  came  to  say 
Goldy  was  dead  —  laid  his  brushes  down  —  shut  up  his 
studio,  and  gave  the  day  up  to  his  grief.  Burly  old 
Dr.  Johnson  was  touched  keenly,  and  mourned  his  death 
as  he  had  mourned  for  very  few. 

They  buried  him  in  the  Temple  Church-yard,  quietly ; 
but  among  the  mourners  were  men  so  highly  and  so 
worthily  known,  that  the  presence  of  one  of  them  was 
worth  more  to  the  fame  and  memory  of  poor  Goldy  than 


GOLDSMITH'S   WORK.  95 

would  have  been  the  presence  of  a  host  of  gilded 
carriages,  and  the  blaze  of  idle  ceremony. 

There  is  a  tablet  in  honor  of  this  writer  of  the  Prim- 
rose story,  in  Westminster  Abbey ;  and  upon  it  a  Latin 
inscription  —  by  Dr.  Johnson,  with  one  line  in  it,  I  dare 
say  you  have  seen  somewhere  :  — 

Nnlhim  quod  tetigit  non  oniavit. 

It  was  so  aptly  said,  that  it  has  been  said  of  many  others 
since ;  but  never  said  so  truly  as  of  poor  Goldy. 

No  one  knows  just  where  he  lies  buried  in  Temple 
Church-yard,  for  there  is  no  record.  But  they  have 
placed  a  stone  with  his  name  upon  it  on  the  north  side 
of  the  Temple  Church,  a  little  west  of  the  master's 
house  ;  and  there  visitors  go  every  Sunday  —  strangers 
from  all  countries  —  men,  and  women,  and  children,  to 
see  the  stone  which  bears  the  name  of  the  man  who 
told  such  a  winning  story  of  a  poor  Vicar  and  his  family. 

He  will  never  be  forgotten.  He  deserves  to  be 
remembered. 


mim» 


iAfii»JF^^ 


V. 


GULLIVER    SWIFT. 


Some   Queer  Little  People. 


A  HUNDRED  and  fifty  years  ago,  or  thereabout, 
while  George  the  First  was  King  of  Great  Brit- 
ain, there  was  a  story  of  some  voyages  printed  in  Eng- 
land, which  everybody  read  with  a  great  deal  of  wonder. 

There  never  had  been  such  voyages  made  before ; 
there  never  had  been  such  people  seen  as  this  voyager 
had  seen. 

A  man  who  said  his  name  was  Richard  Sympson 
sent  the  story  of  these  voyages  to  the  printer  or  pub- 
lisher, and  told  him,  and  told  the  public,  that  he  knew 
the  man  who  wrote  the  story,  and  that  he  was  living  in 
Nottinghamshire  in  England,  and  that  he  was  a  friend 
of  his,  and  connected  with  him  on  the  mother's  side. 
And,  besides  this,  he  said  that  he  was  a  truthful  man, 
and  that  his  neighbors  believed  what  he  said.  He  knew 
the  house  in  which  he  had  lived,  too,  and  knew  who  his 
father  was  —  which  was  not  very  strange,  since  he  was 
connected  with  him,  as  I  said,  on  the  mother's  side. 
96 


GULLIVER  SWIFT.  97 

The  name  of  this  voyager  was  Lemuel  Gulliver ;  and 
he  was  so  much  thought  of  among  his  neighbors  (Mr. 
Sympson  said),  that  it  came  to  be  a  proverb  among 
them,  when  any  one  told  a  thing  that  was  very,  very 
true,  to  add,  —  "  It's  as  true  as  if  Mr.  Gulliver  had  said 
it." 

Well,  this  Mr.  Gulliver  said  he  studied  physic  in 
Leyden,  and  married  Mary  Burton,  who  lived  in  New- 
gate Street,  and  that  he  got  four  hundred  pounds  in 
money  by  his  wife.  I  don't  see  any  reason  to  doubt 
this.  He  went  as  surgeon  on  a  good  many  ships ;  but 
nothing  happened  to  him  very  extraordinary,  until  he 
sailed  in  May,  1699,  in  the  "Antelope,"  for  the  South 
Seas.  (I  knew  a  ship,  once,  called  the  "Antelope.") 
This  "  Antelope "  was  commanded  by  Capt.  William 
Prichard ;  but  that  doesn't  matter  much,  since  Mr.  Gul- 
liver doesn't  refer  to  Capt.  Prichard  once  again. 

They  had  a  very  hard  time  of  it,  —  a  good  many  of  the 
sailors  dying  off;  and  on  the  5  th  of  November  —  a  little 
while  before  Thanksgiving  Day  in  New  England  —  the 
ship  drove  on  a  rock,  and  split. 

Ships  do  so  very  often  when  they  drive  on  rocks. 

Six  of  the  men  got  clear,  with  Gulliver,  and  rowed 
until  the  wind  upset  the  boat.  The  six  men  were 
drowned ;  but  Gulliver  touched  bottom,  and  walked  a 
mile  through  the  water  till  he  reached  land.  Then 
being  very  tired,  and,  as  he  says,  "  having  taken  half  a 
pint  of  brandy  aboard  ship,"  he  was  very  sleepy,  and  lay 
down  to  doze.  This  about  the  brandy  is,  I  dare  say, 
not  more  than  half  true. 

He  says  he  must  have  slept  about  nine  hours,  and 
when  he  waked  he  felt  stiff,  and  couldn't  turn  over.     He 


98  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

tried  to  lift  his  arm,  but  he  couldn't.  Presently  he 
found  out  that  there  was  a  cord  across  his  breast,  and 
another  across  the  middle  of  his  body ;  and  then  he 
found  that  his  legs  were  tied,  and  his  arms ;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  —  though  he  couldn't  tell  certainly  — 
that  his  hair  was  fastened  to  the  ground.  This  was  all 
strange  enough ;  but  it  was  stranger  yet  when  he  felt 
something  walk  up  over  his  left  leg,  and  come  on  across 


Six  Inches   High. 

his  body,  almost  to  his  chin,  so  that  by  turning  his  eyes 
down,  he  could  see  a  little  fellow,  about  six  inches  high, 
formed  just  like  a  man,  with  a  bow  and  arrows  in  his 
hand.  One  would  have  been  enough  ;  but  when  he  felt 
forty  more  walking  over  his  legs  and  arms,  and  pulling 
themselves  up  by  his  hair,  he  roared  out,  —  as  I  think 
you  and  I  would  have  done. 


^^^^iQ^usa 


Gulliver  on  Exhibition. 


GULLIVER  SWIFT.  lOI 

At  this  they  all  scampered ;  and  some  of  them  hurt 
themselves  badly  by  tumbling  off  his  body,  though  this 
Mr.  Gulliver  did  not  know  until  some  time  afterward. 
The  poor  voyager,  who  was  thus  lying  on  his  back, 
struggled  a  little,  and  so  he  came  to  get  his  left  arm 
loose  ;  which  was  very  lucky  for  him,  because  these  little 
people,  who  were  much  frightened,  began  to  shoot 
arrows  at  him,  and  would  most  certainly  have  put  out 
his  eyes  if  he  had  not  covered  them  with  his  hand. 

But,  by  little  and  little,  he  was  able  to  look  about  him, 
and  saw  there  thousands  and  thousands  of  these  queer 
small  people  in  the  fields  around. 

Afterward,  when  he  had  made  signs  that  he  was 
hungry  and  thirsty,  they  brought  him  food,  a  wagon-load 
at  a  time,  which  he  took  up  between  his  thumb  and 
finger ;  and  their  casks  of  wine,  —  no  bigger  than  a  tea- 
cup, —  he  emptied  in  a  way  that  made  them  wonder. 
(Of  course,  if  these  people  were  only  six  inches  high, 
their  wine-casks  must  have  been  small  in  proportion ; 
every  one  must  see  the  truth  of  that.)  But  these  little 
people  had  put  drugs  in  the  wine,  so  that  Mr.  Gulliver 
slept  very  soundly  after  it,  —  so  soundly  that  he  didn't 
know  at  all  when  they  brought  an  immense  cart  or  truck 
(which  they  used  for  dragging  vessels),  and  slung  him 
upon  it ;  and  with  fifteen  hundred  of  the  king's  horses 
drew  him  to  town.  There  they  chained  him  by  one  leg, 
near  to  the  entrance  of  an  immense  temple,  with  a  door 
four  feet  high  —  so  that  he  was  able  to  crawl  under 
cover  when  he  awoke. 

Of  course  all  the  little  people  round  about  came  to 
see  Mr.  Gulliver,  whom  they  called  "The  Man-Moun- 
tain ; "  and  the  king,  who  had  a  majestic  figure,  since  he 


102  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

was  taller  by  half  an  inch  than  any  of  his  subjects, 
appointed  officers  to  show  the  Man-Mountain,  and  the 
officers  in  this  way  made  a  great  deal  of  money  out  of 
Mr.  Gulliver.  Officers  almost  always  make  money  out 
of  somebody. 

He  caught  their  language,  after  a  time ;  though  they 
couldn't  have  spoken  louder  than  our  crickets  —  if  as 
loud.  The  name  of  this  strange  country  was  Liliput ; 
and  Mr.  Gulliver  was  introduced  to  all  the  distinguished 
people  there,  —  at  least  he  says  so,  —  and  has  a  good 
deal  to  say  about  the  queen  and  the  princesses,  and  how 
he  amused  them.  Travellers  are  apt  to.  He  helped 
them,  too,  very  much  ;  and  when  a  people  living  upon  a 
neighboring  island  called  Blefuscu  threatened  war,  and 
collected  a  great  fleet  of  vessels  to  attack  the  Lilipu- 
tians,  Mr.  Gulliver  kindly  waded  over  one  morning,  and, 
tying  a  cord  to  all  the  ships'  bows,  drew  them  along 
after  him,  and  gave  them  up  to  his  imperial  majesty  of 
Liliput.  He  had  to  put  on  his  spectacles,  however, 
while  he  was  in  the  water,  to  keep  the  Blefuscan 
soldiers  —  who  were  collected  on  the  shores  by  thou- 
sands—  from  shooting  out  his  eyes. 

The  King  of  Liliput  was,  of  course,  delighted  with 
this  service  of  Mr.  Gulliver,  and  made  him  a  prince  on 
the  spot.  He  also  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if 
Mr.  Gulliver  should,  some  day,  wade  across  again,  and 
drag  over  the  rest  of  the  enemy's  ships  ;  but  the  Eng- 
lishman did  not  think  very  well  of  this,  and  I  suspect 
this  difference  led  to  a  little  coolness  between  him  and 
the  king.  It  is  certain  that  a  good  many  of  the  high 
officers  took  up  a  dislike  of  Mr.  Gulliver,  as  well  as  some 
of  the  ladies  of  the  court.     The  long  and  the  short  of  it 


GULLIVER  SWIFT.  103 

was,  that  he  found  himself  out  of  place  among  the  Lili- 
putians,  and  so  went  over  afoot  to  the  island  of  Blefuscu, 
where  he  soon  was  on  very  good  terms  with  the  emperor 
of  that  empire,  though  he  had  drawn  away  his  ships. 

One  day,  however,  Mr.  Gulliver  espied  in  the  offing  an 
English  boat  bottom  side  up,  and  by  dint  of  wading  and 
tugging,  with  the  aid  of  several  Blefuscan  men-of-war,  he 
brought  it  to  land.  There  he  repaired  the  boat,  —  the 
emperor  kindly  consenting,  and  furnishing  a  few  hun- 
dred mechanics  to  aid  him.  Then  he  stocked  the  boat 
with  provisions,  taking  some  live  sheep  and  cattle,  and 
set  off  homeward.  He  ran  great  danger  of  being 
wrecked ;  but,  finally  fell  in  with  an  English  merchant 
vessel,  —  Capt.  John  Biddel,  commander,  —  who  kindly 
took  him  on  board,  and  asked  him  how  he  happened  to 
be  at  sea  in  a  yawl  1 

Mr.  Gulliver  told  him,  and  described  the  people  he 
had  been  with.  Capt.  Biddel  didn't  believe  him,  and 
thought  him  crazy.  Whereupon  Mr.  Gulliver  pulled 
some  of  the  Blefuscan  sheep  and  cattle  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  showed  them  to  him. 

Capt.  Biddel  couldn't  say  any  thing  more.  Mr.  Gulli- 
ver arrived  home  safely ;  found  his  wife  well,  and  his 
boy  Johnny  (named  after  his  uncle,  who  had  left  him 
some  land  at  Epping)  at  the  grammar  school. 


Some  Monstrous  People. 

This  same  Mr.  Gulliver  made  three  or  four  more 
voyages,  and  always  had  the  luck  to  fall  in  with  most 
extraordinary  people,  —  some  of  them  being  ninety  feet 


I04  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

high ;  and  he  was  for  a  considerable  time  in  the  waist- 
coat pocket  of  a  farmer. 

Only  imagine  what  the  wheat  must  have  been,  and  the 
pumpkins,  and  the  green  corn  —  where  a  farmer  could 
quietly  put  a  great  traveller  like  Mr.  Gulliver  in  his 
vest-pocket !  People  get  into  farmers'  pockets  in  this 
country,  —  but  not  in  that  way. 

The  potatoes  in  that  land  of  Brobdingnag  (for  so  the 
country  was  called)  must  have  come  up  to  Mr.  Gulliver's 
waistband;  and  as  for  the  potato  plants,  they  would 
have  made  a  great  craggy  forest  over  his  head  ;  and  the 
Colorado  beetles  (which  probably  did  not  live  in  that 
time)  would  have  been  huge  creatures,  upon  whose  back 
a  man  might  ride. 

Think,  too,  of  what  the  trees  must  have  been  in  such 
a  region :  the  great  California  Red-woods  would  have 
been  mere  walking-sticks ;  and  the  mountains  would 
have  risen  up  at  least  some  sixty  or  seventy  miles  in  the 
air,  and  of  course  would  have  been  seen  a  very  long  dis- 
tance away.  Just  what  that  distance  might  be,  looking 
over  the  sea,  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to  calculate. 

It  seems  very  strange  that  a  land  with  such  huge 
mountains  upon  it  should  never  have  been  discovered 
until  Mr.  Lemuel  Gulliver  passed  that  way ;  and  yet 
this  is  hardly  more  strange  than  the  other  things  he 
tells. 

One  would  have  thought  that  such  monstrous  people 
with  their  monstrous  tools  of  all  kinds  —  a  sickle  was 
larger  than  our  scythes  —  should  have  had  great  tele- 
scopes too,  so  that  wonderful  sights  would  be  opened  to 
them  in  the  skies  ;  but  if  it  were  so,  he  tells  us  nothing 
of  it.     On  another  of  his  voyages,  however,  to  a  land 


GULLIVER  SWIFT.  105 

called  Laputa,  —  which  was  a  land  that  floated  about  in 
the  air  and  was  directed  by  a  huge  magnet,  —  he  does 
tell  us  of  strange  things  discovered  in  the  sky.  Among 
the  rest,  he  assures  us  that  these  Laputans  had  found 
out  that  the  planet  Mars  had  two  moons  or  satellites 
revolving  about  it,  —  whereof  one  revolves  in  the  space 
of  ten  hours,  and  the  other  in  twenty-one  and  a  half. 

You  may  be  sure  that  the  British  astronomers  had  no 
faith  in  this  when  Gulliver  reported  it ;  certainly  no 
one  except  these  Laputans  had  ever  seen  such  moons  : 
and  now,  in  this  year  1877,  it  proves  that  the  report  is 
quite  true,  and  that  there  are  such  moons,  —  though 
their  times  of  revolution  may  be  a  little  different,  —  and 
they  have  been  discovered  through  the  great  telescope 
in  Washington. 

What  if  the  other  reports  which  Gulliver  made 
should  some  day  prove  to  be  true !  What  if  we  should 
find  somewhere  in  the  interior  of  Africa  queer  little 
people  like  Liliputians,  or  great  monsters  of  men  like 
those  of  Brobdingnag ! 

Though  these  last  were  monstrous  in  size,  they  were 
excellent,  quiet  people.  Gulliver  had  a  great  many  long 
talks  with  their  King,  who  had  a  strong  liking  for  this 
little  traveller,  and  led  him  on  to  tell  all  about  the  gov- 
ernment and  usages  of  the  country  from  which  he  had 
sailed.  He  thought  Mr.  Gulliver  did  a  wise  thing  in 
sailing  away  from  it.  For  when  he  heard  of  the  bicker- 
ing, and  wars,  and  bribery,  and  cheating,  and  prisons, 
which  were  com.mon  in  England,  he  thought  the  people 
must  be  "  contemptible  little  vermin,"  and  said  so  plainly 
to  Mr.  Gulliver. 

Mr.  Gulliver  does  not  seem  to  have  been  offended,  or 


I06  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

at  least  he  did  not  resent  this  plain  talking ;  and  when 
he  told  the  King  further,  that  in  his  country  men  were 
used  to  making  great  tubes  of  metal  (as  large  as  his 
majesty's  tooth-pick),  and  filled  them  with  a  black  powder 
and  hot  shot,  and  then  fired  them  off  with  a  terrible 
explosion,  so  as  to  kill  and  maim  as  many  men  as  possi- 
ble at  one  blast  —  the  big  King  was  horrified.  And, 
when  one  thmks  of  it  closely,  it  does  seem  horrible. 

Gulliver  told  the  King,  one  day,  in  the  course  of  a  con- 
versation, which  he  held  by  sitting  upon  a  chair  placed 
on  a  cabinet,  and  the  cabinet  on  a  table,  —  all  which 
brought  Mr.  Gulliver  about  on  a  level  with  the  King's 
ear,  who  kindly  took  a  low  seat,  —  I  say  Gulliver  told 
the  King  that  in  his  country  —  meaning  England  — 
there  were  a  thousand  works  published  on  the  art  of 
government.  The  big  King  said  only,  "Pooh!  pooh!" 
but  afterward  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  **  whoever 
could  make  two  ears  of  corn  or  two  blades  of  grass  to 
grow  upon  a  spot  of  ground  where  only  one  grew  before, 
would  deserve  better  of  mankind,  and  do  more  service  to 
his  country,  than  the  whole  race  of  politicians  put 
together." 

A  good  many  orators  have  said  the  same  thing  since ; 
but  the  King  of  Brobdingnag  said  it  first. 

Of  course  Mr.  Gulliver  must  have  found  it  very  awk 
ward  in  getting  about  in  houses  where  the  steps  were  all 
five  feet  high,  and  where  the  level  of  the  seats  was  six- 
teen feet  above  the  floor.  The  flies,  too,  were  as  large 
as  robins,  and  came  buzzing  frightfully  about  his  ears. 
He  had  a  very  narrow  escape,  also,  from  a  couple  of 
rats ;  when  his  great  presence  of  mind  alone  saved  him 
from  death. 


GULLIVER  SWIFT. 


107 


It  happened  in  this  wise.  He  had  been  left  asleep  on 
a  bedstead  twenty  feet  from  the  floor,  in  a  chamber 
which  was  about  three  hundred  feet  wide  by  five  hundred 
feet  long,  and  high  in  proportion.  Waking  up  suddenly, 
he  saw  two  enormous  beasts,  as  large  as  large  mastiffs, 
but  with  the  whiskers  and  tails  of  rats,  tramping  toward 
him.  One  seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  had  nearly 
throttled  him,  when  he  managed  to  draw  out  the  short 
sword  which  he  always  wore,  and  with  it  he  pierced  the 


Gulliver  Kills  a  Rat. 


monster  rat  through  the  body.  The  other  ran  away 
frightened,  but  not  until  the  traveller  had  given  him  two 
or  three  good  thwacks  with  his  weapon. 

He  was,  however,  very  limp  and  exhausted  after  this 
battle  —  as  you  observe  in  this  picture  of  him. 

Fortunately,  Mr.  Gulliver  kept  a  journal,  or  else  wrote 


I08  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

out  the  account  of  his  travels  and  of  his  adventures 
when  they  were  fresh  in  his  mind.  But  his  friend  Mr. 
Sympson,  of  whom  I  spoke  in  the  beginning,  did  not 
cause  his  travels  to  be  printed  until  a  good  many  years 
after.  Why,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  When  they  were 
printed,  people  in  England  were  very  much  astonished ; 
and  some  curious  ones  went  so  far  as  to  go  down  into 
Nottinghamshire  to  have  an  interview  with  Mr.  Gulliver. 
But,  bless  you,  he  wasn't  there.  He  was  not  anywhere, 
the  Nottingham  people  said.  And  some  went  so  far  as 
to  say  there  was  no  Mr.  Sympson. 
Who  then  t 

Who  was  Gulliver! 

There  can't  be  travels  unless  there's  a  traveller, — 
that's  certain.  If  Mr.  Gulliver  didn't  bring  away  those 
small  cattle  in  his  pocket  from  Blefuscu, — which  Capt. 
Biddel  saw,  and  Capt.  Biddel's  mate  saw, — where  did 
he  bring  them  from  t  or  if  Mr.  Gulliver  didn't  fetch  them 
himself,  who  did  } 

Everybody  asked,  and  for  a  good  while  nobody  knew. 
At  last  it  all  came  out.  There  was  no  Gulliver,  and 
there  was  no  Sympson,  —  only  Dean  Swift,  a  queer  sort 
of  Irish  clergyman,  who  saw  in  his  own  library  every 
thing  that  Gulliver  professed  to  have  seen.  And  this 
Dean  Swift  was  as  strange  a  creature  as  any  that  Mr. 
Gulliver  saw. 

He  was  a  child  of  English  parents,  though  he  was 
born  in  Ireland,  and  lived  most  of  his  life  in  Ireland. 

Sir  William  Temple  had  married  a  relative  of  Swift's 
mother,  and  therefore  he  was  befriended  by  Sir  William 


GULLIVER  SWIFT.  109 

Temple,  and  through  him  came  to  know  a  great  many 
distinguished  people  of  England,  —  the  King  among  the 
rest.  He  had  a  university  education,  and  a  powerful 
and  acute  mind,  and  enormous  ambition.  These  things 
would  have  made  him  a  distinguished  man,  even  if  he 
had  never  known  Sir  William  Temple  and  never  known 
the  King. 

But  he  was  an  utterly  selfish  man ;  and  though  he  was 
admired  by  thousands,  he  was  loved  by  very  few. 

That  queer  story  of  Gulliver,  I  have  told  you  of,  was 
written  by  him,  —  not  so  much  to  amuse  his  readers  as 
to  ridicule  the  people  he  had  met  about  the  court  of 
England.  He  loved  dearly  to  ridicule  people  whom  he 
disliked  ;  and  I  think  he  disliked  nearly  the  whole  human 
race. 

He  wanted  to  be  a  Bishop  ;  but  Archbishop  Sharp 
told  the  Queen  that  he  was  unfit  to  be  a  Bishop  ;  and  I 
think  Sharp  was  right.  A  man  who  is  doing  his  best 
only  when  he  is  saying  (or  writing)  harsh,  witty  things  of 
other  people,  is  not  the  man  for  Bishop,  or  clergyman 
either. 

And  yet  —  so  strange  a  creature  was  this  Dean  Swift 
—  he  did,  at  one  time,  make  himself  respected  and  held 
in  good  esteem  as  a  parish  priest.  Not  such  a  man,  we 
may  be  sure,  as  the  excellent  Dr.  Primrose  ;  but  he  filled 
up  the  measure  of  his  duties  with  a  sturdy  zeal,  and  for 
the  poor  or  those  who  were  beneath  him  in  position,  he 
never  had  bitter  words.  He  gave  in  charity  too,  but 
often  with  such  look  of  scorn  as  made  it  hard  to  accept 
his  gifts.  At  the  last,  too,  —  to  do  him  justice,  —  he  left 
a  large  sum  to  endow  a  hospital  for  lunatics  ;  and  if  he 
could   have   had   his  way,    and   had   possessed   money 


no  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

enough,  I  think  he  would  have  clapped  half  the  world 
into  such  an  asylum.  A  very  great  man,  to  be  sure  — 
as  his  writings  and  his  influence  show;  but  a  soured 
man ;  with  good  instincts  sometimes  struggling  up  to 
light ;  and  sometimes  amazing  people  by  sudden  explo- 
sions of  generosity;  but  yet  —  all  through  his  life,  mak- 
ing ten  men  hate  and  fear  him,  where  he  made  one  love 
him. 

It  must  be  said  that  his  boyhood  was  a  hard  one :  he 
had  no  father  to  direct  or  win  him ;  he  was  poor ;  he 
only  gained  his  education  by  the  charity  of  an  uncle 
whom  he  never  loved,  and  of  whom,  in  his  savage  way, 
he  always  spoke  scornfully ;  he  quarrelled  with  his 
teachers.  His  only  sister  married  badly,  and  he  never 
forgave  her  for  it ;  and,  though  he  came  afterward  to 
give  support  to  her  family,  he  did  it  grudgingly.  He 
quarrelled  with  Sir  William  Temple,  who  was  one  of  the 
gentlest  and  most  amiable  of  men  ;  and  when  he  came, 
by  his  splendid  talents,  to  be  associated  with  the  first 
men  in  England,  —  there  were  few  of  them  in  political 
life  with  whom  he  did  not  sooner  or  later  find  himself  at 
war. 

He  lived  when  Pope  lived,  and  Gay  and  Bolingbroke 
and  Steele  and  Defoe,  the  author  of  "Robinson  Crusoe." 
But  I  think  he  never  knew  this  last,  and  I  dare  say 
thought  of  him  as  a  tile-maker  and  a  quack.  Yet  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  he  read  ''  Robinson  Crusoe,"  which 
was  published  only  five  or  six  years  before  Gulliver's 
travels  ;  and  the  minute  careful  descriptions  in  this  last 
remind  one  very  much  of  the  pains-taking  descriptions 
in  the  voyages  of  Crusoe. 


GULLIVER  SWIFT. 


Ill 


Dean  SwifVs  Love. 

Of  domestic  comforts  Swift  knew  very  little,  and  per- 
haps cared  little.  In  his  early  life  he  had  met  Esther 
Johnson,  a  charming  young  person,  who  was  living  under 
the  guardianship  of  Sir  William  Temple.      Under  his 


Dean   Swift. 

direction  he  became  her  tutor ;  he  admired  her  quick- 
ness ;  perhaps  he  admired  her  beauty  :  certain  it  is  that 
he  so  won  upon  her  that  she  gave  her  heart  and  faith  to 
him  wholly.  She  was  that  ''  Stella"  whom  all  the  world 
came  to  know  through  his  poems. 

When  he  went  to  take  a  parish  in  Ireland,  she  fol- 


112  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

lowed  with  an  elderly  lady  friend,  and  took  a  cottage 
near  to  his  parsonage.  There  she  lived  for  years  — 
people  wondering  at  this  strange  friendship ;  she,  poor 
girl,  believing  her  idol,  the  great  Dean,  could  do  nothing 
wrong.  In  later  life  he  did  indeed  marry  her  privately, 
but  she  never  came  to  make  glad  any  home  of  his  ;  nor 
would  he  —  though  she  entreated  it  again  and  again  — 
ever  publicly  acknowledge  the  marriage.  Beside  her 
death-bed  he  did  relent ;  but  poor  Esther  Johnson  said 
it  was  too  late  ;  and  she  died  with  a  blighted  name,  and 
heart-broken. 

This  was  bad  enough  :  but  more  remains  to  be  told. 
At  the  very  time  when  ** Stella"  was  receiving  fond 
letters  from  this  strange  Dean  —  when  he  never  went  to 
England  without  declaring  to  her  how  hard  it  was  to  be 
away  —  when  he  was  writing  fierce  political  pamphlets, 
and  pushing  intrigues  at  Court ;  he  was  writing  letters 

—  quite  as  fond  as  those  to  "  Stella  "  —  to  a  wealthy  and 
beautiful  Miss  Van-homrig,  who  is  known  as  the  "Va- 
nessa" of  some  of  his  best  verses.  She  was  highly 
educated ;  she  admired  the  Dean  ;  they  read  together  : 
their  intimacy  was  such  that  all  who  knew  of  it  believed 
that  he  wished  and  intended  to  make  her  his  wife.  She 
was  led  to  believe  this  too :  she  never  doubted  Dr.  Swift 

—  not  even  when  rumors  came  to  her  ear  of  the  true 
story  of  ''Stella."  But,  finding  out  with  her  woman's 
wit  the  real  name  of  *'  Stella,"  she  wrote  to  her  a  letter, 
asking  what  claim  she  had  to  the  protection  and  love  of 
Dean  Swift. 

It  was  after  the  private  marriage;  and  "Stella"  told 
all,  and  sent  "Vanessa's"  letter  to  the  Dean.  Fast  as 
horses  would  carry  him  the   Dean  rode  away  to  that 


GULLIVER   SWIFT.  II3 

beautiful  home  of  Miss  Van-homrig,  where  he  had  met 
such  kindly  greetings  —  where  over  and  over  they  two 
had  read  poetry  together  under  the  shade  of  the  laurel 
boughs,  —  laurels  of  ''Vanessa's"  own  planting,  and  all 
planted  in  honor  of  the  Dean  —  he  did  not  now  slacken 
pace  until  he  was  at  the  door ;  he  passed  into  the  room 
where  the  poor,  shrinking,  frightened  Vanessa  waited 
her  fate.  He  threw  her  letter  wide  open  upon  the  table, 
and  with  an  oath  of  defiance  turned  upon  his  heel,  and 
strode  out  of  the  house,  —  never  to  enter  it  again. 

She,  poor  woman,  whose  heart  had  gone  out  to  his, 
bowed  underneath  this  blast  of  his  fury.  Three  weeks 
after  this,  they  buried  her  —  the  victim  of  Dean  Swift's 
rage  and  double  dealing. 

Do  you  think  this  was  the  sort  of  a  man  to  make  a 
clergyman  of }  And  yet  he  could  so  impose  on  men  of 
eminence,  that  the  great  Addison  wrote  on  the  fly-leaf 
of  a  little  book  which  he  gave  him,  —  "To  Dr.  Jonathan 
Swift ;  the  most  agreeable  companion,  the  truest  friend, 
and  the  greatest  genius  of  his  age." 

Certainly  he  was  a  rare  genius.  No  other  English 
writer  has  ever  put  words  together  in  a  way  which  shows 
more  surely  and  more  sharply  his  real  meaning;  and 
none  ever  put  more  meaning  into  his  words.  If  he 
were  only  less  coarse  and  less  indecent,  — for  he  is  often 
both,  —  no  better  model  for  strong,  clear  writing  could 
be  given  you.  As  it  is,  I  would  advise  only  the  reading 
of  the  Liliput  voyage  of  Gulliver. 

And  what  old  age  do  you  think  befell  this  great  man  .'' 
No  calm,  — no  peace  in  it ;  no  quietude  of  home  ;  no  chil- 
dren ever  fondled  him.  He  grew  so  petulant  and  irrita- 
ble, that  no  one  wanted  to  live  in  the  same  house  with 


114  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

him.  Then  came  moodiness  and  melancholy.  For  a 
year  he  said  never  a  word  to  any  one.  At  last  that 
great  mmd  of  his — which  was  joined  to  no  heart  at  all 

—  broke  down,  and  went  out.  Yet  still  he  lingered  ;  he 
ate  ;  he  slept ;  he  paced  his  chamber  —  knowing  nothing 

—  saying  nothing  that  was  worth  saying  ;  and  only  hired 
keepers  were  with  him  at  his  death. 

If  he  were  alive  to-day,  and  at  his  best,  we  might  like 
to  have  him  make  our  dictionaries  for  us,  or  go  to 
Washington  for  us;  but  of  a  certainty  —  knowing  him 
as  we  do  —  we  should  never  want  him  to  preach  Chris- 
tianity for  us,  or  to  sit  down  with  us  at  our  firesides. 


A  Brobdingnag  Book. 


VI. 


AN    IRISH    STORY-TELLER. 


Who  was  She? 


DID  you  ever  hear  of  Gretna-Green,  and  of  Gretna- 
Green  marriages  ? 

Gretna  is  a  small  place  in  Scotland,  only  a  little  way 
over  the  English  border,  as  you  go  from  Carlisle  to 
Dumfries  ;  and  it  used  to  be  famous  as  a  place  for  run- 
away couples  to  go  and  be  married  —  a  thing  that  it  was 
much  easier  to  do,  without  consent  of  relatives,  under 
the  Scotch  law,  than  under  the  English  law. 

Well,  in  the  year  1763 — the  year  when  poor  Gold- 
smith was  getting  into  trouble  with  his  landlady,  and 
had  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  still  in  his  drawer  — 
there  drove  up  to  the  inn  at  Gretna  a  fine  carriage  with 
a  young  gentleman  in  it,  hardly  nineteen  years  old,  who 
was  an  Oxford  student  ;  and  he  brought  with  him  a 
young  girl  only  seventeen  ;  and  these  runaways  were 
married  there  by  the  blacksmith  of  the  village,  who 
was  also  justice  of  the  peace. 

I  suppose  the   parents  were  indignant ;  but  I  think 


Il6  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

they  forgave  them  afterward.  The  young  wife  lived 
only  a  few  years  ;  but  she  left  to  her  husband  two 
children.  The  oldest,  a  boy,  was  brought  up  in  a  very 
strange  way,  —  yet  a  way  which  had  been  commended 
by  a  French  philosopher,  —  Rousseau  (who  never  had  a 
child  that  he  cared  for).  This  young  Oxford  man  was 
at  this  time  a  great  admirer  of  Rousseau  :  so  his  boy 
did  what  he  chose  to  do,  and  nothing  that  he  did  not 
choose.  He  was  never  punished  ;  wore  no  clothing 
beyond  what  decency  required  ;  and  grew  up,  as  any- 
body might  expect,  a  strong,  active,  ungovernable,  bare- 
armed  and  bare-legged  young  savage.  He  took  a  strong 
liking  for  the  sea,  just  when  his  father  would  have  been 
glad  to  keep  him  on  land  ;  and  to  sea  he  went  ;  and  at 
sea  he  kept  —  until  in  after  days  he  went  to  America, 
married  there,  and  settled  near  to  Georgetown  in  South 
Carolina,  where,  it  is  said,  some  of  his  descendants  still 
live. 

The  second  child  of  this  runaway  match  was  a 
daughter,  who  grew  up  to  be  one  of  the  best-known 
women  in  all  Europe  ;  and  her  name  —  if  you  have  not 
guessed  it  already  —  was  Maria  Edgeworth. 

Her  father — Richard  Lovell  Edgeworth,  married 
again  ;  in  fact,  he  married  a  third  and  a  fourth  wife 
before  he  was  sixty  ;  and  he  had  a  great  company  of 
children,  who  lived  with  him  in  a  huge  country  house 
near  to  Longford  in  the  centre  of  Ireland.  Here  Maria 
Edgeworth  went,  when  she  was  only  four  years  old  ;  here 
she  grew  into  such  love  for  Ireland  and  the  Irish,  that 
she  called  herself  an  Irishwoman,  and  was  proud  to  be 
so  called  ;  and  here  she  wrote  those  stories  which  were 
the  delight  of  all  young  people  forty  years  ago,  and 


AN  IRISH  STORY-TELLER.  II/ 

those  novels  which  were  the  delight  of  all  the  grown 
people  of  her  time.  —  You  never  heard  of  them  ?  Well, 
well !  Yet  it  is  not  so  very  long  ago  that  she  was  alive 
there,  —  a  good,  kindly  old  lady  ;  and  her  stepmother 
—  the  latest  wife  of  Richard  Edgeworth  —  died  only  the 
other  day  (1864). 

It  is  quite  too  soon  to  forget  good  Miss  Edgeworth 
and  her  books.  Why,  in  my  school-days,  the  fellow  who 
had  not  read  "Eton  Monteni,"  and  "Forrester,"  and 
"Waste  not,  Want  not,"  was  not  counted  much  of  a 
reader.  There  were  long  words  in  them,  and  some 
prosiness,  maybe  (Dr.  Johnson,  who  set  the  example 
of  long  words,  was  the  great  man  in  her  young  days,  you 
must  remember) ;  but  there  was  a  good  plot  in  her 
stories,  and  a  good  winding-up.  You  couldn't  tell  now, 
if  you  were  to  read  one  of  her  books,  what  church  she 
attended,  or  what  party  she  voted  with  ;  but  you  could 
find,  scattered  up  and  down,  such  talk  as  would  show  — 
that  honesty  and  common  sense  and  good  manners  and 
good  morals  and  all  charities  were  always  venerated  by 
her,  and  always  taught  by  her. 

Her  Stories, 

I  don't  think  I  shall  forget  to  the  last  day  of  my  life, 
the  long  white  Chalk-Hill  near  to  Dunstable,  where 
Paul  and  his  little  sister  "  scotched  "  the  wheels  of  the 
chaises  that  went  toiling  up,  so  that  the  horses  might 
take  a  breathing-spell.  The  story  was  in  the  "  Parents' 
Assistant ; "  and  there  was  a  quaint  old  cut  showing 
Paul  with  his  "  scotcher,"  and  sister  Anne,  and  the  old 
grandmother  —  talking  over  the  guinea  which  had  been 
given  the  children  by  accident. 


Il8         ,       ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

Would  he  keep  it?  —  would  he  return  it?     Of  course 
we  knew  how  it  would  be  ;  and  the  sturdy  honesty  and 


Basket- Woman. 

pluck  of  the  lad  as  he  went  bustling  through  the  inn- 
yard  at  Dunstable  was  more  refreshing  than  the  eighth 
commandment  repeated  ten  times  over. 

Some  of  us  made  "scotchers,"  to  look  like  Paul's,  out 
of  blocks  and  broom-handles  ;  but  there  were  no  chaise- 
wheels  and  no  long  chalk-hills  to  help  us  out ;  and  no 


k 


AN  IRISH  STORY-TELLLER.  II9 

guineas  dropped  into  our  hats  by  accident  or  otherwise. 
If  there  had  been,  I  think  we  should  have  caught  —  all 
the  same  —  the  infection  of  good  Miss  Edgeworth's 
straightforward  honesty.  Healthy,  cheery,  unhesitat- 
ing honesty  is  always  catching. 

The  fact  is,  that  homely  old  truths,  which  nobody  in 
his  senses  ever  thought  of  disputing,  lie  at  the  bottom 
of  most  of  Miss  Edgeworth's  pleasant  stories,  and  put 
their  color  on  them  from  beginning  to  end. 

She  doesn't  take  the  sly  way  of  covering  up  a  moral 
pill  in  a  spoonful  of  jelly  —  so  that  a  boy  shall  bolt  it 
without  knowing  it ;  nor  does  she  tie  the  lesson  she 
wants  to  teach  upon  the  end  of  her  stories  —  like  a 
snapper ;  but  it  runs  all  through  them,  and  is  so  strong 
and  sound  and  good  that  every  boy's  common  sense 
makes  him  stand  up  stoutly  for  her  little  heroes. 

Take  that  old  tale  of  **  Waste  not.  Want  not."  Mr. 
Meacham  is  a  shrewd,  practical,  kindly-disposed  man, 
who  —  having  no  sons  of  his  own  —  has  taken  a  couple 
of  nephews  to  bring  up  and  care  for. 

Hal  is  free  and  easy  ;  and  has  been  brought  up  to 
have  a  great  respect  for  people  with  a  great  trail  — 
whether  of  titles  or  of  silk.  How  the  boy  does  wor- 
ship Lady  Diana  Sweepstakes  and  her  sons  ! 

Ben,  the  other  nephew,  is  thoughtful,  quiet,  careful, 
plodding,  and  doesn't  think  of  running  after  boys  be- 
cause they  are  Lady  Diana's  sons. 

Mr.  Meacham  —  wanting  to  test  the  working  ways  of 
his  two  nephews  —  gives  to  each  a  big  parcel  to  undo. 
Hal  goes  daintily  about  his  task,  —  puzzles  over  the 
knots,  —  gets  petulant,  —  whips  out  his  knife,  and  cuts 
all  clean.     Ben  sets  himself  sturdily  to  a  careful  unty- 


120  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

ing  of  the  fastenings,  and  saves  a  good  bit  of  whipcord. 
Next  day  Mr.  Meacham  gives  each  of  them  a  top  —  but 
without  strings.  Ben,  by  his  steady  care  of  yesterday, 
is  provided  with  a  capital  one.  Hal  —  in  a  gust  of  per- 
plexity—  at  last  pulls  off  his  hat-band,  and  uses  it  up. 

Presently  afterward,  a  great  archery  match  is  to  come 
off  under  the  patronage  of  Lady  Diana.  Both  are  pro- 
vided with  bows  and  arrows,  —  thanks  to  uncle  Meach- 
am :  and  both,  by  a  little  practice,  come  to  be  good 
shots.  Hal  wants  a  white  and  green  uniform  to  wear  — 
since  Lady  Diana's  boys  are  to  have  such.  Ben  does 
not  care  so  much  to  do  things  because  Lady  Di's 
boys  do  them  ;  and  puts  his  money  into  a  good  v/inter 
coat,  that  will  be  of  service  when  the  archery  day  is 
gone  by. 

Well,  the  time  for  the  match  comes  at  length.  Hal  is 
very  fine  in  his  green  and  white  ;  but  it  is  something 
cold  and  windy ;  and  his  hat  —  for  want  of  that  band 
which  went  to  top-spinning  some  days  before  —  goes 
spinning  over  a  ploughed  field,  where  Hal  must  needs 
follow,  and  comes  back  with  his  green  and  white  uni- 
form woefully  draggled  and  besmeared  with  red  mud. 
He  could  bear  this  better  if  he  did  not  catch  a  sneering 
look  from  Lady  Diana  and  Lady  Diana's  boys  :  those 
who  worship  fashion  must  take  fashion's  sneers.  How- 
ever, he  stands  up  bravely  to  the  shooting.  The  Sweep- 
stakes boys  have  made  good  ventures  ;  Hal  does  fairly 
at  the  first  two  shots  (they  have  three  each) ;  but  at 
the  third  —  twang  !  goes  his  bow-string,  —  hopelessly 
broken. 

Ben  shoots  as  well ;  is  mighty  comfortable,  too,  in  his 
snug   linsey-woolsey  coat  ;    but    it    could    not   bar  him 


AN  IRISH  STORY-TELLER.  121 

against  accident.  His  bow-string  gives  out  at  the  sec- 
ond shot.  Ben  is  not  flustered  one  jot  :  he  pulls  out 
that  bit  of  whipcord  which  he  had  saved  from  his  par- 
cel-fastening, and  which  had  done  service  with  his  top, 
—  adjusts  it  to  his  bow,  —  takes  new  aim,  and  with  two 
capital  shots  —  one  after  the  other  —  wins  the  match. 

I  suspect  that  little  experience  —  as  recorded  in  the 
"  Parents'  Assistant  "  — has  led  to  the  saving  of  a  great 
deal  of  whipcord  first  and  last :  and  I  suspect  it  has 
lessened  the  eagerness  with  which  some  boys  —  even 
American  boys  —  will  go  hunting  after  familiarity  with 
the  showy  Lady  Dianas  and  the  Lady  Diana's  sons. 
Miss  Edgeworth  did  not  believe  in  fustian. 

Then  there  was  that  jolly  story  —  as  we  easily  thought 
it  —  of  the  "Limerick  Gloves."  What  a  pig-headed 
British  obstinacy  in  the  old  verger  Jonathan  Hill,  with 
his — ''What  I  say,  I  say;  and  what  I  think,  I  think." 
We  had  seen  such  people,  though  they  did  not  wear 
wigs  like  the  verger  of  Hereford.  There  was  the  stout 
wife  too,  who  set  him  upon  the  hunt  for  unreal  troubles, 
and  carried  her  head  so  high  ;  and  the  pretty  Phoebe, 
with  the  bang  in  her  hair,  looking  demure,  but  very 
constant  in  thinking  well  of  Mr.  Brian  O'Neill,  whatever 
papa  might  do  or  say. 

It  looked  as  if  there  were  a  great  Popish  plot  to  come 
out  in  the  story,  and  as  if  the  Hereford  Cathedral  were 
to  be  blown  up ;  but  it  ends  in  a  scare  about  a  mere  rat- 
hole  under  the  church  wall,  and  in  the  pretty  Phoebe 
wearing  her  Limerick  gloves  ;  and  "  no  perfume  ever 
was  so  delightful  to  her  lover  "  (who  was  Brian  O'Neill) 
"as  the  smell  of  the  rose-leaves  in  which  they  had  been 
kept."     The  moral  of  the  tale  is,  —  we  have  no  right 


122  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

to  suspect  people  of  roguery  and  arson  because  they  do 
not  sing  out  of  our  hymn-book. 

I  have  no  doubt  Phoebe  and  O'Neill  married  ;  but 
Miss  Edgeworth  doesn't  say  so.  In  fact,  few  of  her 
stories  are  love-stories  in  the  ordinary  sense.  She 
never  married  herself  ;  and  I  dare  say  saw  no  reason 
why  a  story  —  like  a  life  —  might  not  be  a  good  one 
without  being  rounded  off  with  a  marriage. 


Nearly  all  of  her  stories  were  written  in  that  old 
country-house  in  Ireland.  There  was  almost  always  a 
troop  of  children  in  it,  as  I  have  said,  whom  she  loved, 
and  who  loved  her.  The  father,  too,  was  a  companion 
and  a  helper  in  all  her  work ;  for  he  had  bravely  given 
over  all  the  wild  courses  of  his  younger  days,  and  was 
one  of  the  best  of  landlords  ;  seeking  always  for  means 
to  help  on  his  work-people,  and  so  knitting  their  inter- 
ests with  his  own,  that  in  the  rebellion  of  1798,  when 
so  many  brave  young  Irishmen  went  to  the  scaffold,  and 


AN  IRISH  STORY-TELLER, 


123 


SO  many  homes  were  desolated,  the  Edgeworth  house 
(though  they  were  obliged  to  leave  it  for  a  time,  in  the 
madness  of  the  outbreak)  was  wholly  unharmed.  Even 
the  pens  and  papers  upon  Miss  Edgeworth's  table  were 
found,  at  their  return,  precisely  as  she  had  left  them. 


Edgeworth. 

An  avenue  of  gaunt  old  trees  leads  up  to  the  mansion 
from  the  high  road  ;  and  the  library  windows  look  out 
upon  lawn  and  garden,  which  were  always  in  the  old 
time  carefully  kept.  And  it  is  a  wonderful  thing,  and 
worth  the  telling  —  that  this  good  lady  authoress  never 
had  her  *' moods  "  —  never  neglected  commonest  every- 
day duties,  and  actually  did  her  book-making  work  sur- 
rounded by  the  family, — with  only  such  retirement  as 
she  could  gain  by  placing  her  quaint  little  writing-table 
(still  preserved)  in  a  corner  of  the  great  library,  which 
was  also  the  common  sitting-room. 


124  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

But  it  was  an  orderly  and  a  cheery  household.  Mr. 
Edgeworth  writes  to  Dr.  Darwin  in  1796  —  '*  I  do  not 
think  one  tear  a  month  is  shed  in  this  house,  nor  the 
voice  of  reproof  heard."  The  son  who  had  been  bred 
half  a  savage  was  gone  at  this  time  ;  else  I  think  he 
would  have  amused  himself  with  pinching  the  fat  arms 
of  the  little  ones. 

I  cannot  show  you  a  portrait  of  Miss  Edgeworth  ;  for 
she  would  never  consent  to  sit  for  one.  She  was  not 
beautiful,  but  very  comely,  and  had  those  virtues  which 
almost  compensate  for  beauty  —  extremest  cleanliness 
and  neatness  of  dress  and  person. 

Forester. 

Upon  the  whole,  I  think  the  best  short  story  of  Miss 
Edgeworth's  is  that  which  she  calls  "  Forester  ; "  it  is 
certainly  worth  every  boy's  reading.  I  can  only  give 
you  a  sketch  of  it. 

The  hero  was  the  son  of  a  strange  English  gentle- 
man, who  had  very  curious  notions  about  society  and 
education,  —  not  very  unlike  those  which  Mr.  Edge- 
worth  held  when  he  was  making  a  half-savage  of  his 
oldest  son. 

Forester's  father  died  when  the  lad  was  nineteen  ; 
and  he  was  placed  under  the  guardianship  of  Dr.  Camp- 
bell, a  clever  and  learned  man,  who  had  a  clever  son 
Henry,  and  a  pretty  lass  of  a  daughter  called  Flora. 

Forester  was  brave  and  generous  and  truthful ;  but 
he  had  been  taught  to  believe  that  cleanliness  and  good 
manners  and  the  usual  forms  of  cultivated  society  were 
idle  things,  not  worthy  of  the  consideration  of  a  reflect- 


AN  IRISH  STORY-TELLER,  1 25 

ing  man  ;  and  he  brought  his  half-savage  habits  into  the 
family  of  the  good  Dr.  Campbell.  The  Campbells,  see- 
ing his  better  qualities,  bore  with  him  patiently ;  but 
there  was  a  certain  Lady  Mackenzie,  with  her  son 
Archibald,  living  under  the  same  roof  —  very  preten- 
tious and  artificial  and  shallow,  both  of  them.  These 
lose  no  occasion  to  ridicule  the  shortcomings  of  poor 
Forester,  who  finds  that  the  ridicule  of  the  shallow,  if 
well  informed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  is  very  irritat- 
ing. He  pays  back  ridicule  with  a  noisy  contempt ;  and 
his  sense  of  truth  is  not  kept  in  check  by  any  regard  for 
the  feelings  of  others.  He  would  have  lived  as  inde- 
pendent as  Robinson  Crusoe,  if  he  could,  and  with  as 
little  practice  of  the  ordinary  courtesies  of  society.  He 
had  been  taught  to  think  that  a  polished  manner  must 
needs  go  always  with  a  selfish  indolence  ;  and  he  showed 
his  hate  for  it  by  wanton  disregard  of  proprieties,  and 
by  choosing  his  companions  among  those  beneath  him, 
whom  he  honored  only  because  they  were  without  any 
fashionable  gloss. 

I  suppose  that  most  of  big-brained  boys  go  through 
this  state  of  feeling  at  some  period  of  their  youth  ;  but 
they  never  get  on  very  well  in  life  until  they  master  it 
and  hold  it  decently  in  check. 

Forester's  wrong-headedness  puts  him  in  the  way  of 
incurring  a  good  many  damaging  suspicions  —  that  are 
slyly  fed  by  the  Mackenzies,  who  hate  the  lad's  coarse- 
ness, and  are  jealous  of  his  cleverness.  But  this  he 
could  bear  bravely  enough,  —  with  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  honest  and  true.  But  when  his  slovenliness  and 
disregard  for  appearances  exposed  him  to  the  open  ridi- 
cule of  a  company  of  well-bred  people  —  as  it  did  upon 


26 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


a  memorable  evening  at  his  friends,  the  Campbells,  he 
forswears  all  further  intercourse  with  such  people  — 
packs  up  his  wardrobe, — writes  an  adieu  to  the  Camp- 
bells, and  goes  to  live  with  an  industrious,  simple- 
minded  gardener. 

He  finds,  however,  that  the  gardener  and  the  garden- 
er's people  —  however  simple-minded  they  may  be  — 
are  just  as  self-seeking  as  those  he  has  left  ;  and  that  it 

is  none  the  better  for 
being  coarsely  shown. 
He  learns  how  to  plant 
flowers,  and  enjoys  it ; 
but  he  doesn't  find  any 
delightful  Arcadia  with 
the  gardener. 

He  conceals  his  name 
so  that  old  acquaint- 
ances shall  know  noth- 
ing of  him  ;  yet  his  new 
acquaintances  are  not 
satisfying :  so  he  chan- 
ges quarters,  and  estab- 
lishes himself  in  the 
office  of  a  great  brew- 
ery. Oddly  enough,  he 
doesn't  find  the  clerks 
and  apprentices  here 
gets  his  dismission  at  an  early 
join  his  fellow  clerks  in  sup- 


Forester. 


altogether  perfect.  He 
day,  because  he  will  not 
porting  some  false  report  to  the  officers  of  excise. 

He  next  undertakes  employment  with  a  bookseller 
and  printer,  whom  he  has  encountered  accidentally,  and 


AN  IRISH  STORY-TELLER.  12/ 

with  whom  he  doubtless  hopes  to  find  purity  without 
any  pretence  or  parade.  I  doubt  if  he  did  ;  so  does  Miss 
Edgeworth. 

Meantime  he  had  been  practising  extravagant  chari- 
ties—  siding  with  poor  street  people  in  quarrels  he 
knew  nothing  of  —  thrusting  himself  into  situations  by 
his  independent  bravado,  that  made  him  easily  suspected 
of  bad  deeds.  Indeed,  it  came  to  that  pass  at  last,  that 
he  was  fairly  arrested  as  party  to  a  theft  of  which  he 
knew  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 

As  an  independent  young  citizen  who  wanted  to  live 
his  own  life  without  thanks  to  anybody  —  there  was  no 
one  to  help  him.  But  as  young  Forester  —  when  his 
name  came  to  be  known — and  former  companion  to 
young  Henry  Campbell,  the  old  Doctor  and  all  his 
friends  came  forward  to  aid  him  in  spite  of  himself. 
These  establish  very  clearly  the  honesty  of  the  young 
man ;  but  in  making  this  clear,  it  was  equally  well 
proven  that  he  had  acted  with  very  great  folly.  Perhaps 
it  was  some  consolation  to  him  to  know  that  the  real 
culprit  —  so  far  as  there  was  any  culprit  at  all  in  the 
matter  of  the  theft  —  was  his  old  enemy,  the  elegant 
Archibald  Mackenzie. 

Forester  is  brought  to  think  better  of  the  Campbells 
—  gentlemanly  as  they  are  ;  and  he  is  taught,  too,  to  pay 
more  regard  than  had  been  his  habit  to  those  formali- 
ties of  society,  which  the  usage  and  good-fellowship  of 
the  world  —  for  a  few  centuries  past  —  have  laid  down 
for  law.  He  gave  over  the  hope  of  fighting  windmills 
and  carrying  off  honor ;  or  of  overleaping  the  customs 
of  civilized  life  at  a  bound.  In  the  excess  of  his  new- 
found tolerance,  it  is   stated   that   he    condescends    to 


128  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

take  a  few  dancing-lessons.  He  goes  back  to  his  old 
intimacy  with  the  Campbells  —  father  and  son  and 
daughter.  He  wears  clean  linen  —  does  not  put  on 
Crusoe  goat-skins ;  think's  no  worse  of  people  for  say- 
ing *'  Good-morning  "  cheerily  and  to  all  the  world  ;  does 
not  consider  a  shabby  coat  or  a  coarse  speech  of  neces- 
sity a  reason  for  showing  favor ;  and  the  curtain  of  the 
little  story  drops  upon  our  hero  —  dancing  a  Scotch  reel 
with  the  pretty  Flora  Campbell ! 

Whether  they  made  a  match  of  it,  Miss  Edgeworth 
does  not  say,  and  has  no  need  to  say.  The  tale  is 
pointed  with  a  moral,  though  it  be  not  blazoned  with  a 
marriage. 


VII. 

TWO   FRENCH   FRIENDS. 

^urst  of  ^evolulion. 

I  REMEMBER  that  in  my  old  Geography  — a  lit- 
tle square,  fat  book,  most  unlike  the  Geographies 
which  I  observe  spread  out  under  the  eyes  and  elbows 
of  youngsters  nowadays  —  the  Frenchman  was  pic- 
tured and  described  as  an  extremely  limber  and  graceful 
gentleman,  taking  off  his  hat  with  a  wide  flourish  to 
ladies  in  great  furbelows,  or  else  dancing  with  others 
of  like  elegance  around  a  tall  tree ;  and  I  always  found 
it  very  hard  to  believe  how  so  gay  and  polite  and  fes- 
tive gentlemen  should  have  taken  it  into  their  hearts 
or  heads  to  engage  in  the  bloody  work  of  those  *'  Days  of 
Terror,"  which  were  also  spoken  of  in  the  Geography. 
I  have  discovered  since,  that  dancing  men  and  women 
are  often  very  cruel,  and  do  not  care  on  whose  toes 
they  tread. 

You  have  all  heard,  I  dare  say,  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution. But  do  you  know  how  it  came  about,  and  what 
its  terrors  were  ? 

129 


130  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

It  came  about  because  there  had  been  a  great  many 
wicked  kings  and  wicked  nobles  in  France,  who  had 
Uved  only  for  their  own  selfish  ends,  and  had  considered 
the  people  as  beasts  of  burden,  to  be  used  to  help  them 
forward  in  their  pleasure-seeking  and  their  money-getting. 
If  they  wanted  war  for  any  ambitious  purpose  of  their 
own,  whole  regions  were  desolated,  and  sons  and  fathers 
and  husbands  swept  away  down  the  bloody  path  that 
war  always  makes.  If  they  wanted  service  of  any  kind, 
—  whether  honest  labor  or  vile  labor, — children  were 
torn  from  parents,  and  new-married  wives  from  their 
husbands. 

But  the  poorest  of  the  French  people  were  so  igno- 
rant, and  had  lived  in  a  state  of  slavish  dread  of  those 
who  were  above  them  in  rank,  for  so  long  a  time,  that 
perhaps  they  would  have  borne  their  trials  longer  — 
if  it  had  not  happened  that  very  many  among  the  richer 
people,  and  the  better  educated  ones  suffered  too,  by 
reason  of  quarrels  with  the  nobles,  or  quarrels  among 
themselves,  or  abuses  of  the  king  or  his  courtiers. 
Among  the  most  fearful  of  these  abuses  were  those 
which  were  committed  under  the  authority  of  what  were 
called  lettres  dii  cachet,  or  letters  with  the  royal  seal. 
Throughout  the  reigns  of  Louis  XIV.  and  of  Louis  XV., 
this  sort  of  tyranny  was  common.  Thus,  if  a  noble 
bore  a  grudge  against  some  neighbor,  and  wished  to  take 
him  out  of  the  way,  he  would  apply  to  the  king  or  to  a 
royal  minister,  and  beg  or  buy  an  order  with  the  royal 
seal  upon  it :  —  Under  authority  of  this  royal  order,  he 
v^rould  send  a  file  of  soldiers  to  seize  his  enemy,  and 
thrust  him  into  a  prison  of  the  state,  where  he  might 
spend  years  without  communication  with  wife  or  friends. 


TIVO  FRENCH  FRIENDS.  I31 

Friends  or  family  would  not  know,  indeed,  whither  he 
had  gone ;  and  so  secretly  would  the  work  be  done,  that 
they  could  not  tell  when  or  by  whom  he  was  torn  away. 
Sometimes  an  old,  white-haired  man,  who  had  been 
almost  forgotten,  would  suddenly  appear  among  his 
acquaintances  again,  after  twenty  years  of  dungeon 
life. 

If  you  should  ever  read  Mr.  Dickens's  **Tale  of  Two 
Cities,"  —  and  it  is  one  of  the  strongest  stories  he  wrote, 
and  well  worth  your  reading, — you  will  find  a  thrilling 
narrative  of  the  imprisonment  of  a  French  physician, 
—  who  was  torn  away  from  his  young  wife,  and  for 
sixteen  long  years  never  heard  if  she  were  alive  or 
dead.  No  wonder  that  his  mind  gave  way,  and  that 
when  he  found  liberty  at  last,  he  was  a  poor  decrepit 
shadow  of  a  man. 

There  is  also  another  terrible  story  of  abuse  under 
these  lettres  du  cachet,  which  is  said  to  be  wholly  true, 
and  which  appeared  in  a  book  called  "  Letters  from 
France,"  by  Helen  Maria  Williams,  —  an  English  lady 
who  passed  much  time  in  France  before  the  Revolution, 
and  who  was  herself  a  prisoner  in  the  Temple,  under  the 
rule  of  Robespierre.  Her  story  was  about  a  black- 
hearted father,  who,  —  under  cover  of  one  of  these  kingly 
orders  or  letters,  —  caused  his  own  son,  who  had  offended 
him,  to  be  snatched  away  from  his  family,  and  to  be 
buried  in  a  dungeon  for  years.  In  fact,  there  was 
hardly  any  crime  against  persons  that  might  not  be 
permitted  under  shelter  of  one  of  those  terrible  ** letters" 
of  the  king. 

What  would  you  think,  pray,  if  our  President,  or 
Gen.  Sherman,  might  issue  a  letter  with  the   State  seal 


132  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS, 

affixed,  which  would  empower  any  marshal  or  politician  — 
or  whoever  might  gain  possession  of  the  letter  —  to  seize 
upon  any  enemy  of  his  at  dead  of  night,  and  bear  him 
off  to  prison,  and  keep  him  there  so  long  as  he  might 
choose  ?  Would  not  such  a  power,  unchecked  by  any 
courts  of  justice  or  by  law,  make  of  our  country  —  or  of 
any  country  —  a  very  doleful  place  to  live  in  ? 

And  can  you  wonder  that  those  poor  people  in  that 
far-away  France,  and  in  that  far-away  time  (nearly  a 
hundred  years  now),  should  have  chafed  under  it,  and 
talked  bitterly  and  threateningly;  until -after  a  while 
their  angry  and  threatening  talk  grew  into  a  great  tem- 
pest that  swept  through  the  Paris  streets  like  a  whirl- 
wind ? 

No  wonder  they  were  maddened  ;  no  wonder  their 
passion  got  the  better  of  their  judgment ;  no  wonder 
the  population,  led  on  by  enraged  men,  worked  deeds 
of  cruelty  which  made  all  Europe  shudder.  Very  great 
wrongs,  however  orderly,  are  almost  always  balanced  — 
sooner  or  later  —  by  very  great  and  disorderly  avenge- 
ment. 

When  that  tempest  of  madness  I  was  speaking  of  just 
now  first  swept  through  the  streets  of  Paris,  in  the  reign 
of  Louis  XVL,  it  drove  the  crazed  people  in  herds,  to 
glut  their  vengeance  upon  those  who  were  keeping  cap- 
tives in  chains,  within  the  great  prison  of  the  Bastille. 
This  was  a  grim  and  dismal-looking  building  upon  the 
borders  of  Paris,  with  sluggish  water  around  it ;  and 
its  door  was  entered  by  a  draw-bridge.  Toward  the 
frowning  walls  of  this  prison  (there  is  only  a  tall  bronze 
column  upon  the  spot  now)  the  populace  of  the  city 
rushed  headlong,  with  whatever  weapons  they  could  lay 


TWO  FRENCH  FRIENDS, 


133 


hands  upon.  Butchers  took  their  cleavers,  stable-men 
their  forks,  carters  their  heavy  oaken  stakes,  carpenters 
their  axes ;  and  there  were  thousands  with  guns  and 
cutlasses,  while  brawny  women  carried  huge  pistols. 


The  Bastille. 


The  soldiers  who  guarded  the  prison  were  so  fright- 
ened by  the  sights  and  sounds  of  this  tempest  of  the 
people's  fury,  that  they  could  hardly  make  any  opposing 
fight  at  all.  The  governor  of  the  prison,  seeing  what 
mad  rage  he  must  encounter,  would  have  blown  up  the 
huge  building  altogether ;  and  had  actually  laid  the 
match  to  do  so,  but  the  soldiers  rebelled,  and  forced  him 
to  surrender.  Then  the  raging  mob  flowed  in  ;  and 
those  who  wore  the  uniform  of  the  king  were  smitten 


134  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

to  death.  The  dungeon  gates  were  unlocked,  and  prison- 
ers staggered  out,  who  had  not  seen  the  sun  for  dozens 
and  scores  of  years. 

T)ays  of  Terror. 

A  beautiful  girl  was  caught  sight  of,  flying  down  one 
of  the  great  stairways.  She  was  straightway  seized 
upon  by  those  who  believed  her  to  be  a  daughter  of  the 
governor,  and  would  have  been  burned  in  the  court-yard 
had  not  a  few  generous  soldiers  stolen  her  away,  and 
secreted  her  until  the  sack  was  over.  As  for  the  gov- 
ernor, —  who  was  a  marquis  and  the  king's  friend,  — 
they  cut  off  his  head,  and  bore  it  bleeding  from  the  top 
of  a  pike-staff,  all  down  the  street ;  and  all  down  the 
street  poured  the  mad,  rejoicing  rabble,  slaying  many 
another  as  they  went,  and  carrying  the  trophies  with 
them, — gory  heads  on  pikes,  or  gory  heads  on  chafing- 
dishes  carried  by  women. 

As  it  was  on  that  day,  so  it  was  on  many  a  day  there- 
after, and  for  many  a  week  and  month  ;  and  for  years, 
whoever  was  a  noble,  or  friend  of  the  hated  nobles, — 
or  rich,  or  friend  of  the  hated  rich,  —  liv^ed,  if  he  lived 
at  all  in  that  city  of  revolution,  in  great  dread  and 
danger. 

There  was  not  much  feeling  at  the  first  against  Louis 
XVI.,  for  he  was  a  far  better  king  than  those  who  had 
gone  before  him.  He  was  kindly  at  heart,  and  what  we 
might  call  nowadays  a  gentlemanly,  amiable  man,  — 
with  not  much  force  of  character,  and  disposed  to  yield 
to  the  opinions  of  those  who  had  been  his  old  advisers. 
These,   by  their  obstinacy,   brought  him   very  soon    to 


TH^O  FRENCH  FRIENDS.  1 35 

grief.  The  people  forced  him  to  trial,  and  there  was  a 
forced  condemnation.  His  head,  too,  fell  before  the 
fury  of  the  enraged  people,  and  was  held  up  by  the  exe- 
cutioner upon  the  scaffold,  for  the  thronging  mob  to 
look  upon. 

This  poor  king  had  left  behind  him  in  the  prison  a 
son,  whom  he  had  taught,  as  he  best  could  in  those 
dreary  prison  hours,  arithmetic  and  geography.  Do  you 
think  the  boy  ever  forgot  those  lessons,  or  ever  forgot 
the  sorrow,  and  the  loud  wailings  of  his  mother  —  the 
queen,  when  the  king  went  out  to  his  death.'' 

A  little  after  this,  those  crazy  ones  who  were  govern- 
ing France  gave  over  this  prince  boy  to  the  care  of  a 
shoemaker  and  his  wife,  —  to  whom  they  furnished  a 
lodgement  in  the  prison  ;  and  they  did  this  in  order,  as 
they  said,  that  the  bringing-up  of  the  boy  might  be  as 
low  as  that  of  the  lowest  of  the  people.  Poor  boy ! 
poor  prince ! 

A  little  later,  Marie  Antoinette,  the  queen,  was  taken 
out  of  her  dungeon  to  go  to  trial :  they  called  it  a  trial, 
for  the  sake  of  decency ;  but  I  think  they  knew  how  it 
would  end,  before  they  called  on  her  to  appear.  If  the 
judges  before  whom  she  stood  had  said  she  was  inno- 
cent and  must  go  free,  I  am  sure  that  the  wives  of  the 
wine-sellers,  and  the  fish-women,  and  the  hags  of  Paris, 
would  have  snatched  her  away,  and  carried  her  off  to 
execution,  —  if  they  had  not  slain  her  with  their  own 
bread-knives  in  the  street. 

These  mad  people  had  such  a  thirst  for  blood ! 

It  was  better  perhaps  that  the  judges  should  say  the 
queen  must  be  beheaded,  as  they  did,  than  that  these 
wild  women  should  cut  her  in  pieces. 


136 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


She  certainly  died  an  easier  death  by  the  guillotine. 
Another  famous  woman  who  fell  under  the  hands  of 
the  executioner  in  these  bloody  days,  and  whom  we  do 
not  know  whether  most  to  pity  or  to  admire,  was  Char- 
lotte Corday. 

She  was  of  humble  family,  in  Normandy.  No  one  in 
Paris  had  ever  heard  of  her  when  she  left  her  home  in 

early  July,  1793,  to  come  up 
^  to    the    bloody    city.      Yet 

what  she  did,  and  what 
happened  to  her  within  one 
week,  have  made  her  name 
known  everywhere. 

She  had  a  lover  who  was 
suspected  by  the  revolution- 
ary tribunal,  and  who  was 
assassinated  by  order  of 
Marat, — who  was  the  most 
cruel  and  the  most  hated  of 
all  the  men  who  governed. 

Charlotte  Corday  deter- 
mined to  avenge  her  lover, 
and  free  France  of  the  monster  Marat.  So  she  jour- 
neyed up  to  Paris,  —  went  to  the  home  of  Marat,  — found 
some  excuse  for  admission,  —  engaged  him  in  talk  (for 
she  was  winning  in  manner,  and  intelligent),  and,  seizing 
her  chance,  plunged  a  dagger  in  his  bosom. 

There  were  many  in  Paris  who  gave  a  sigh  of  relief 
when  they  heard  of  this  murder ;  but  there  were  howl- 
ing thousands  who  clamored  for  the  blood  of  poor  Char- 
lotte Corday.  A  young-  man  offered  to  die  in  her  place  ; 
but  this  could  not  be.     There  was  a  sharp,  quick  trial, 


Charlotte  Coiday 


TPFO  FRENCH  FRIENDS.  1 37 

and  within  a  week,  —  in  her  little  Norman  sacque,  — 
and  in  her  Norman  cap,  she  too  went  through  the 
streets  to  take  her  turn  under  the  sharp,  swift  knife  of 
the  guillotine. 

The  Guilloiine. 

You  don't  know  what  the  guillotine  is  ? 

I  will  tell  you.  Perhaps  you  have  sometimes  seen 
the  great  knives  sliding  up  and  down  in  a  frame,  by 
which  hay  and  straw  are  cut  for  horses.  Well,  im- 
agine, if  you  can,  a  knife  like  those,  —  only  a  great  deal 
larger  and  a  great  deal  sharper, — working  up  and  down 
in  grooves  like  the  straw-cutter.  Then  imagine  such  a 
knife  at  the  top  of  two  grooved  posts  some  eight  feet 
high,  with  a  great  weight  resting  on  it ;  then  fancy  the 
poor  victim  lying  at  the  foot  of  these  posts,  with  the 
bared  neck  placed  directly  between  the  grooves  ;  next 
imagine  the  headsman, — as  he  was  called, — pulling  a 
cord  which  sets  the  great  knife  free  —  to  come  —  clang- 
ing down  with  an  awful  thud 

It  does  dreadfully  quick  work :  but,  for  all  that,  it  is 
the  most  humane  way  of  executing  capital  punishment : 
—  if  there  be  any  humanity  in  it  at  all  —  which  I  doubt. 

The  machine  was  called  guillotine,  after  a  Dr.  Guillo- 
tin,  who,  in  the  French  Assembly  in  1791,  proposed  a 
better  way  of  cutting  off  people's  heads  than  the  old 
way  of  doing  it  by  an  axe ;  which  he  said  was  a  clumsy 
way,  and  clumsy  headsmen  sometimes  made  bad  work 
of  it.  But  Dr.  Guillotin  was  not  the  inventor,  as  some 
books  will  tell  you  ;  nor  did  he  lose  his  own  head  by  it, 
as  other  books  will  tell  you. 


138  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

In  1792  the  question  of  finding  some  new  way  of 
execution  was  referred  to  Dr.  Antoine  Louis,  the  Secre- 
tary of  the  College  of  Surgeons  ;  and  he  advised  such  a 
method  as  had  been  hinted  at  by  Dr.  Guillotin  the  year 
before.  They  had  therefore  a  machine  made  for  trial 
by  one  Schmidt,  who  was  a  knife-maker.  Finding  it 
worked  well,  after  trial,  they  adopted  it ;  and  people 
called  it  at  first  **  Louisette."  But  Dr.  Louis  said  he 
didn't  invent  it,  or  make  it.  (Webster's  Unabridged 
Dictionary,  which  is  so  rarely  wrong,  makes  a  mistake 
in  saying  he  did  invent  it.) 

So  the  people  went  back  on  the  name  of  Dr.  Guillo- 
tin —  all  because  a  poet  of  that  day  had  made  some 
jingling  rhymes,  in  which  the  honor  had  been  referred 
to  him. 

The  real  truth  is,  that  a  machine  like  it  had  been  used 
in  Italy,  at  Genoa,  two  hundred  years  before ;  and  in 
England,  at  Halifax  ;  and  in  Scotland,  at  Edinburgh, 
more  than  a  hundred  years  before.  The  Scotch  people 
had  called  it  *'  The  Maiden." 

It  is  a  dreadful  machine,  and  does  verv  quick  work, 
as  I  know;  for  I  have  myself  seen  a  man's  head  taken 
off  by  it ;  and  I  never  wish  to  see  such  a  sight  again. 

And  now,  why  do  you  suppose  I  have  run  over  this 
dismal  bit  of  history }  Only  as  a  sort  of  introduction 
to  two  of  your  good  friends,  — a  man  and  a  woman  who 
lived  in  Paris  through  all  this  time  of  blood,  and  who 
yet  have  written  the  two  most  charming  and  pleasant 
stories  for  children  that  are  anywhere  to  be  found  in 
the  French  language. 


TIVO  FRENCH  FRIENDS.  1 39 


Paul  and  Virginia, 

The  name  of  the  first  story  is  "  Paul  and  Virginia ; " 
and  the  name  of  its  author,  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre. 
He  was  born  at  Havre,  a  seaport  town  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Seine,  and  went  to  school  there  until  he  was 
twelve ;  but  while  he  was  at  school  he  fell  in  with  a 
translation  of  ''Robinson  Crusoe,"  and  he  loved  the 
book  so  much  that  he  came  to  love  adventure  more  than 
books,  and  begged  for  permission  to  go  over  seas  with 
an  uncle,  who  was  bound  for  Martinique. 

And  he  went  there,  and  saw  first  in  that  island  (which 
you  will  find  on  your  atlas  among  the  West  Indies)  the 
bananas,  and  palms,  and  orange-trees,  and  all  that  rich 
tropical  growth,  which  afterward  he  scattered  up  and 
down  upon  the  pages  of  his  story  of  '*  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia." 

But  the  boy  Bernardin  did  not  stay  in  Martinique  : 
he  grew  homesick,  and  went  back  to  France,  and 
studied  engineering  in  Paris  ;  and  before  he  was  twenty 
had  gone  away  again  to  Malta,  which  is  a  strongly  for- 
tified little  island  in  the  Mediterranean,  lying  southward 
of  Italy.  He  did  not  stay,  however,  in  Malta ;  for  he 
fought  a  duel  there,  which  made  it  an  unsafe  place  for 
him. 

Not  long  after  this  he  obtained  a  position  under  the 
famous  Empress  Catherine  of  Russia,  and  had  strange 
adventures  in  Poland  ;  where  it  is  said  a  beautiful  Polish 
princess  would  have  married  the  young  French  engi- 
neer, but  her  friends  took  good  care  she  should  not 
commit  what  was  counted  so  great  an  indiscretion. 


I40  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

He  then  went  to  bis  old  home  at  Havre  again ;  but 
his  family  was  scattered,  and  the  home  broken.  He 
next  gained  an  appointment  as  engineer  to  the  Isle  of 
France,  —  which  was  another  tropical  island  near  to 
Madagascar,  in   the    Indian   Ocean.     After  five  or  six 


Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre. 


years  here,  among  the  bananas  and  the  palm-trees,  he 
went  back  to  Paris  —  without  business,  without  money, 
almost  without  friends.  This  was  his  own  fault,  how- 
ever ;  for  he  was  reckless  and  petulant  and  proud. 

He  began  now  to  think  of  printing  books,  though  he 


TtVO  FRENCH  FRIENDS.  I4I 

was  past  thirty-four.  His  first  venture  was  a  story  of 
his  voyage  to  the  Isle  of  France  ;  afterward  he  passed 
many  years  working  at  what  he  called  '*  Studies  of  Na- 
ture." He  could  hardly  find  a  publisher  for  this.  At 
last,  however,  he  bargained  with  M.  Didot  to  print  it, 
—  and  Didot  was  the  most  celebrated  printer  in  France. 
Not  only  did  he  print  the  book  of  the  adventurous  Ber- 
nardin,  but  he  gave  him  his  daughter  for  a  wife. 

I  suppose  that  this  author  gave  a  great  deal  more  of 
study  and  of  care  to  his  book  on  Nature,  than  he  did  to 
the  little  story  of  ''Paul  and  Virginia."  Yet  it  was  this 
last  —  which  was  published  some  two  years  or  more 
before  the  capture  of  the  Bastille  —  which  gave  him  his 
great  fame. 

Where  there  was  one  reader  for  his  other  books, 
there  were  twenty  readers  for  *'  Paul  and  Virginia." 
In  those  fierce  days  when  the  Revolution  was  ripening, 
and  a  gigantic  system  of  privileges  was  breaking  up 
and  consuming  away,  —  like  straw  in  fire, — this  little 
tender,  simple  story,  with  its  gushes  of  sentiment,  and 
its  warm,  tropical  atmosphere,  was  being  thumbed  in 
porters'  lodges,  and  was  read  in  wine-shops,  and  hidden 
under  children's  pillows,  and  was  sought  after  by  noble 
women,  —  and  women  who  were  not  noble,  —  and  by 
priests  who  slipped  it  into  their  pockets  with  their 
books  of  prayer.  Even  the  hard,  flinty-faced  young 
officer  of  artillery.  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  had  read  it 
with  delight,  and,  in  after-years,  greeted  the  author 
with  the  imperial  demand,  — ''When,  M.  St.  Pierre,  will 
you  give  us  another  '  Paul  and  Virginia' }  " 

It  is  only  a  simple  tale,  tenderly  told.  A  boy  and 
girl  love  each  other,  purely  and  deeply  ;  they  have  grown 


142 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


up  together ;  they  are  poor  and  untaught ;  but  the 
flowers  and  fruits  are  rich  around  them,  and  the  sweet- 
est odors  of  the  tropics  are  spent  upon  the  story.  Vir- 
ginia—  loving  the  boy  —  sails  away  from  their  island 
home  to  win   education   in   the  old  world  —  of  France. 


Paul  and  Virginia. 

The  boy  grieves  ;  and  studies  that  he  may  match  in 
himself  the  accomplishments  which  Virginia  is  gain- 
ing in  Europe.  At  last  the  ship  is  heralded  which 
speeds  her  back.  In  a  frenzy  of  delight  Paul  sees  the 
great  ship  sweep  down  toward  the  shore. 


TIVO   FRENCH  FRIENDS.  1 43 

But  clouds  threaten  ;  a  wild  swift  storm  bursts  over 
the  beautiful  island  ;  there  is  gloom  and  wreck ;  and  a 
fair,  lifeless  form  is  stranded  on  the  sands. 

Poor  Virginia  !     Poor  Paul ! 

Then  —  two  graves,  with  the  name  of  the  story  over 
them.  And  the  birds  sing,  and  the  tropical  flowers 
bloom  as  before. 

This  is  all  there  is  of  it. 

Do  you  not  wonder  that  so  slender  a  tale  could  take 
any  hold  upon  a  people  who  were  ingulfed  in  the  ter- 
rors of  that  mad  revolution }     Why  was  it  .^ 

Partly,  I  think,  because  the  dainty  and  tender  tone  of 
the  story-teller  offered  such  strange  contrast  to  the 
fierce  wrangle  of  daily  talk ;  partly  also,  because  in  the 
breaking  down  of  all  the  old  society  laws  and  habits  of 
living  in  France,  it  was  a  relief  to  catch  this  sweet 
glimpse  of  the  progress  of  an  innocent  life  and  inno- 
cent love  —  albeit  of  children  —  under  purely  natural 
influences. 

It  is  worth  your  reading,  were  it  only  that  you  may  see 
what  tender  and  exaggerated  sentiment  was  relished  by 
this  strange  people,  at  a  time  when  they  were  cutting 
off  heads  in  the  public  square,  by  hundreds. 

It  is  specially  worth  reading  in  its  French  dress,  for 
its  choice  and  simple  and  limpid  language. 

The  Siherian  Wanderer. 

We  come  now  to  talk  of  the  other  book  of  which  I 
spoke.  It  is  by  Madame  Cottin,  and  is  called  "  Eliza- 
beth ;  or,  The  Exiles  of  Siberia." 

Siberia,  you  know,  is  a  country  of  great  wastes,  where 


144  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

snows  lie  fearfully  deep  in  winter,  and  winds  howl  across 
the  bleak,  vast  levels ;  and  wolves  abound.  It  is  under 
the  dominion  of  Russia;  and  to  this  pitiless  country  the 
emperor  of  Russia  was  wont  to  send  prisoners  of  state 
in  close  exile  —  where  their  names  were  unknown,  and 
all  communication  would  be  cut  ofE ;  and  where  they 
would  live  as  if  dead. 

Well,  Elizabeth  was  the  daughter  of  such  a  prisoner ; 
who,  with  his  wife,  lived  in  a  lonely  habitation  in  the 
midst  of  this  dreary  region.  She  grows  up  in  this  deso- 
late solitude,  knowing  only  those  tender  parents,  and 
their  gnawing  grief.  She  knows  nothing  of  their  crime, 
or  exile,  or  judge,  or  real  name.  But  as  she  ripens  into 
girlhood  the  parents  cannot  withhold  their  confidence ; 
and  she  comes  to  know  of  their  old,  and  cherished,  and 
luxurious  home  on  the  Polish  plains,  —  which  is  every 
day  in  their  memory. 

From  this  time  forth  the  loving  daughter  has  but  one 
controlling  thought ;  and  that  is,  —  how  she  may  restore 
these  sorrowful  parents  to  their  home,  and  to  the  world. 

It  is  a  child's  purpose  ;  and  opposed  to  it  is  the  pur- 
pose of  the  Autocrat  of  all  the  Russias.  But  then, 
courage  and  persistence  are  noble  things,  and  they  win 
more  triumphs  than  you  could  believe.  They  will  win 
them  over  school  lessons,  and  bad  habits,  and  bad  tem- 
per,—  just  as  surely  as  they  win  them  in  the  battles  of 
the  world. 

So,  upon  the  desolate  plains  of  Siberia  the  fair  young 
girl  plots  —  and  plots.  How  could  this  frail  creature 
set  about  the  undoing  of  an  imperial  edict,  and  the  res- 
toration of  father  and  mother  to  life  and  happiness  once 
more }      Over  and  over  she  pondered  in    the    solemn 


TIVO  FRENCH  FRIENDS.  1 45 

quietude  of  those  wintry  Siberian  nights,  upon  all  the 
ways  which  might  avail  to  gain  her  purpose.  At  last 
came  the  resolve  —  and  a  very  bold  one  it  was  —  to 
make  the  journey  on  foot,  from  their  place  of  exile  to 
the  Russian  capital ;  never  doubting  —  in  the  fulness  of 
her  faith  —  that  if  she  could  once  gain  a  hearing  from 
the  emperor,  she  could  win  his  favor,  and  put  an  end  to 
her  father's  exile. 

Ah  !  what  could  she  know  of  the  depth  of  state  crimes, 
or  of  the  bitterness  of  royal  hate,  or  of  that  weary  march 
of  over  two  thousand  miles  across  all  the  breadth  of 
Russia } 

She  had  not  the  courage  to  tell  of  this  resolution  to 
her  parents  ;  but  kept  it  ever  uppermost  in  her  thoughts 
as  months  and  years  rolled  on,  and  she  gained  strength ; 
while  the  dear  lives  she  most  cherished  were  wasting 
with  grief  and  toil  in  the  wintry  solitudes. 

One  friend  she  made  her  confidant :  this  was  the  son 
of  the  governor  of  Tobolsk,  who,  in  his  hunting  expedi- 
tions, had  come  unawares  upon  the  retired  cabin  of  her 
father,  and  thereafter  repeated  twice  or  thrice  his  visit. 
He  was  charmed  by  her  beauty  and  tenderness,  and 
would  have  spoken  of  love  ;  but  she  had  no  place  in  her 
heart  for  that.  Always  uppermost  in  her  thought  was 
the  weary  walk  to  be  accomplished,  and  the  pardon  to 
be  sought. 

The  young  hunter  could  not  aid  her;  for  intercourse 
with  the  exiled  family  was  forbidden,  and  he  had 
already  been  summoned  away  and  ordered  to  regions 
unknown. 

At  last,  after  years  of  waiting,  —  Elizabeth  being  now 
eighteen,  —  an  old  priest  came  that  way  who  was  jour- 


146  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

neying  to  the  west.  It  seemed  her  golden  opportunity. 
She  declared  now,  for  the  first  time,  her  purpose  to 
her  parents.  They  expostulated  and  reasoned  with  her. 
The  long  way  was  a  drear  one  ;  monarchs  were  remorse- 
less ;  they  had  grown  old  in  exile,  and  could  bear  it  to 
the  end. 

But  the  tender  girl  was  more  unshaken  and  steadfast 
than  they.  She  bade  them  a  tearful  adieu,  and  with 
the  old  priest  by  her  side,  turned  her  steps  toward  the 
Russian  capital.  Very  toilsome  it  was,  and  day  followed 
day,  and  week  week,  with  wearisome  walking ;  and  be- 
fore the  journey  was  half  done  the  old  priest  sickened 
and  died  —  she  nursing  him  and  closing  his  eyes  for 
his  last  sleep  —  in  a  cabin  by  the  way. 

But  still  she  had  no  thought  of  turning  back,  but 
wearily  and  painfully  pressed  on.  Week  followed  week, 
and  still  long  roads  lay  before  her.  It  will  make  your 
hearts  ache  to  read  the  story  of  her  toil,  —  of  her  bleed- 
ing feet,  —  of  her  encounters  with  rude  plunderers,  — 
her  struggles  with  storm  and  snow  and  cliff.  There 
were  great  stretches  of  silent  forest;  there  were  broad 
rivers  to  cross ;  there  were  gloomy  ravines  to  pass 
through  ;  and  her  strength  was  failing,  and  she  had  been 
robbed  of  her  money,  and  the  winter  was  coming  on ; 
and  there  was  no  messenger  or  mail  to  tell  her  of  the 
dear  ones  she  had  left  in  the  little  cabin  of  the  exile. 
But  through  all,  her  courage  never  once  failed ;  and  at 
last  it  rejoiced  her  heart  —  to  see  in  the  blazing  sun- 
light, on  the  edge  of  the  Muscovite  plains,  the  great 
shining  domes  of  the  palace  of  Moscow. 

Here  she  was  a  stranger  in  a  great  city ;  and  the 
wilderness  of  the  streets  was  full  of  more  terrors  and 


TWO  FRENCH  FRIENDS. 


H7 


more  dangers  for  her  than  the  wilderness  of  the  vast  for- 
ests she  had  crossed  in  safety.  Her  very  frailty,  how- 
ever, with  her  earnestness  and  her  appealing  look,  won 
upon  passers-by ;  and  well-wishers  befriended  her,  and 
heard  her  story  with  amazement.  And  her  story  spread, 
and  made  other  well-wishers  aid,  until  at  last  she  came 
to  the  feet  of  the  emperor. 


The  Wanderer. 


They  knew  —  all  of  them  —  the  tale  she  had  to  tell ; 
and  the  eyes  of  all  pleaded  with  her  so  strongly,  that 
her  request  was  granted,  and  the  father  set  free. 

Of  course  the  story  glides  on  very  pleasantly  after 
this.     She  has  a  government  coach  to  carry  her  back 


148  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

over  that  long  stretch  of  foot-travel ;  she  finds  her 
parents  yet  alive ;  she  somehow  has  encountered  again 
that  stray  son  of  the  governor  of  Tobolsk ;  and  I  believe 
they  were  married,  and  all  lived  happily  ever  after. 

It  is  not  much  of  a  love  story  however,  —  except  of 
parental  love,  —  which,  after  all,  is  one  of  the  purest 
kinds  of  love. 

Madame  Cottin,  who  wrote  the  story,  lived,  as  I  said, 
in  the  days  of  the  French  Revolution,  and  was  married 
in  the  year  1790,  when  she  was  only  seventeen  years 
old.  Her  husband  was  very  much  older,  and  a  rich 
banker.  I  doubt  if  she  loved  him  greatly  ;  there  are 
some  things  in  other  books  of  hers  (for  she  published  a 
great  many)  which  make  me  think  so  very  strongly. 
Still  I  believe  she  was  an  honest  woman,  and  struggled 
to  do  her  duty.  I  do  not  think  Madame  Cottin's  other 
works  are  to  be  commended,  or  that  any  one  reads  them 
very  much  nowadays.  **  Elizabeth  "  —  the  book  of 
which  I  have  given  you  the  story  —  was  printed  in  the 
time  of  the  First  Napoleon  (1806),  and  had  an  immense 
success.  There  is  hardly  a  language  of  Europe  in 
which  it  is  not  to  be  found  printed  now. 

It  is  a  good  story.  What  devotion  !  —  so  rare  —  so 
true  —  so  tender  ! 

Read  it  for  this,  if  nothing  else  ;  and  cherish  the 
memory  ever  in  your  young  hearts. 

It  is  as  good  a  sermon  on  the  fifth  commandment 
as  you  will  ever  hear;  and  remember  —  that  it  was 
preached  by  a  Frenchwoman,  who  lived  in  Paris 
through  the  reign  of  blood. 


VIII. 

FAIRY    REALM. 

Ihe  Grimm   brothers. 

NOT  Giant  Grim  who  lives  in  the  "  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress." Oh,  no  !  it  is  not  that  sort  of  person  at  all, 
about  whom  I  am  to  tell  you,  —  but  of  two  brothers,  who 
were  born  in  Germany,  —  one  at  Hanau  and  the  other 
at  Cassel,  —  only  a  little  time  before  the  outbreak  of 
that  French  Revolution  of  which  I  have  told  you 
within  the  last  few  pages. 

There  were,  indeed,  five  brothers  Grimm  of  this  fam- 
ily;  but  we  have  concern  now  only  with  two, — Jacob 
and  William,  —  who  lived  much  together,  and  worked 
together  with  a  tender  friendliness  that  is  rare,  even 
between  brothers.  Their  youth  was  full  of  hardships 
The  father  died  so  early  that  they  had  only  boyish 
remembrances  of  him  ;  and  the  good  mother  —  of  whom 
Jacob  speaks  most  tenderly  —  was  left  with  so  small  a 
property,  that  she  could  with  difficulty  give  them  the 
commonest  schooling.  But  pluck  and  industry,  with 
occasional  aid  from  a  good  aunt,  helped  them  through. 

149 


I50  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

You  must  have  heard  of  Cassel ;  or,  if  you  have  ever 
been  in  Germany,  the  chances  are  that  you  have  seen 
it,  and  the  palace  and  gardens  of  Wilhelmshohe. 

You  will  remember,  perhaps,  that  Louis  Napoleon 
was  sent  here  after  the  victory  of  Sedan.  There  could 
hardly  have  been  a  more  delightful  prison  —  where 
he  had  the  liberty  of  the  grounds,  and  a  great  throng 
of  servants  at  his  command.  Every  traveller  delights 
in  wandering  under  the  embowered  walks  of  the  palace 
grounds.  There  are  trees  and  flowers  of  all  climates 
there ;  there  are  statues  and  grottoes  ;  there  is  a  foun- 
tain which,  when  in  full  blast,  throws  its  water  a  hun- 
dred and  ninety  feet  into  the  air  —  being  the  highest 
fountain  in  the  world.  Then  there  is  a  vast  flight  of 
stone  steps,  over  which  the  water  sometimes  comes 
bounding  down  in  torrents  ;  and  these  steps  lead  up  to 
the  colossal  Hercules,  whose  figure  crowns  the  hill,  and 
looks  all  abroad  upon  gardens,  and  mountains,  and  town. 
But  even  better  worth  seeing  than  this,  or  than  the  mu- 
seums stocked  with  rare  and  curious  things,  is  the  view 
of  the  lovely  valley,  which  you  get  from  the  public 
square  of  Cassel. 

In  the  middle  of  this  square  stands  the  statue  of  the 
Elector  Frederic  II.  Yet  he  was  not  a  man  who  de- 
served a  statue.  He  indeed  brought  together  the  beau- 
tiful objects  in  the  museum,  and  adorned  the  town  by 
lavish  expenditure.  This  would  have  been  very  well, 
if  the  moneys  had  come  to  him  fairly.  But  how  do  you 
suppose  he  won  his  vast  wealth,  — of  which  the  traces 
are  around  one  everywhere  at  Cassel  t  Only  by  selling 
the  lives  of  his  people. 

You  will  remember,  that  in  any  story  of  the  Ameri- 


FAIRY  REALM,  15 1 

can  Revolution  which  you  may  have  read,  there  is  fre- 
quent mention  of  the  "Hessians"  who  fought  for 
George  of  England. 

Well,  these  "  Hessians,"  or  hired  soldiers,  were  the 
subjects  of  the  Elector  Frederic  H.,  of  Hesse-Cassel,  in 
Germany.  They  were  snatched  from  their  homes  and 
families,  —  more  than  twenty-two  thousand  of  them, 
between  the  years  1776  and  1784, — and  compelled  to 
fight  over  seas,  the  Elector  receiving  for  their  hire 
more  than  twelve  millions  of  dollars ;  and  this  was  a 
sum  in  that  day  which  would  be  equal  to  twenty  mil- 
lions now. 

If  the  brothers  Grimm  had  been  of  good  age  in  the 
time  of  the  Elector  Frederic,  they  might  have  died, 
very  likely,  on  the  battle-fields  of  New  Jersey. 

But  why  have  I  gone  over  seas  to  the  shadows  of 
Wilhelmshohe  to  find  these  Grimm  brothers }  Did 
they  ever  invent  good  stories  .-*  No.  Jacob,  indeed, 
told  the  story  of  his  life ;  but  there  is  no  invention  in 
it,  —  no  fairies  in  it.     He  says,  — 

''My  father  was  too  early  taken  from  us ;  and  I  still 
see  in  spirit  the  black  cofifin,  the  bearers  with  the  yel- 
low lemons  and  the  rosemary  in  their  hands,  pass 
slowly  before  the  window. 

"We  children  were  brought  up  in  the  strict  Calvin- 
istic  Church  :  it  was  rather  the  effect  of  practice  and 
example,  than  of  much  talk.  The  Lutherans  of  our 
little  town  I  used  to  regard  as  strangers,  with  whom  I 
must  not  be  thoroughly  familiar ;  and  of  the  Catholics, 
—  who  were  always  to  be  recognized  by  their  gayer 
dress,  —  I  had  a  strange  sort  of  dread.  And  I  still  feel 
as  if  I  could  not  be  thoroughly  devout  anywhere  but  in 


152  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

the  church  fitted  up  with  the  simpHcity  of  the  reformed 
faith ;  so  strongly  does  all  belief  attach  to  the  first 
impressions  of  childhood. 

"  Love  of  country  was  deeply  impressed  upon  our 
hearts,  I  know  not  how,  for  of  that,  too,  little  was  said  ; 
but  there  was  nothing  in  our  parents'  lives  or  conversa- 
tion which  could  suggest  any  other  thought :  we  held 
our  prince  for  the  best  in  the  world,  our  country  for 
the  most  favored  of  all  countries." 

And  yet  this  was  only  a  very  few  years  after  that 
cruel  sale  of  so  many  Hessian  soldiers  to  be  slaughtered 
in  battle  ;  and  Jacob  Grimm  was  born  in  the  very  year 
—  1785 — in  which  Frederic  II.  died. 

But  why  do  I  talk  of  the  Grimms }  Only  because 
these  two  brothers,  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  gathered 
together,  from  old  libraries,  and  peasants'  talk,  and 
search  in  every  quarter  —  through  years  of  inquiry  — 
a  most  famous  collection  of  old  nursery  tales,  fairy 
legends,  and  household  stories. 

And  you  would  be  surprised,  if  .you  were  to  read 
them  through  (which  I  cannot  advise),  to  find  how 
many  of  our  old  English  stories,  which  we  always 
thought  must  have  had  their  beginning  in  England, 
were  known  still  earlier,  and  gave  joy  and  terror  to 
young  people  ages  ago,  — before  ever  the  present  Eng- 
lish language  was  known.  Thus  "  Goody  Two  Shoes," 
and  ''Cinderella,"  and  ''Jack  the  Giant-Killer,"  and 
"  Little  Red  Riding  Hood,"  have  all  had  their  run 
among  the  young  folks  of  older  countries  —  centuries 
before  such  books  were  printed  by  "good  Mr.  New- 
bery,"  in  St.  Paul's  Churchyard,  in  London.  There  are 
elves  and  giants,  and  good  spirits  and  bad  spirits,  and 


FAIRY  REALM. 


153 


talking  birds,  and  singing  beasts,  doing  all  manner  of 
wondrous  things,  in  these  books  of  the  Grimm  brothers. 
But  you  must  not  think,  that,  because  the  brothers 
Grimm  were  hunting  after  child's  stories  so  toilsomely, 
they  were  men  of  no  learning.  They  were,  in  fact, 
most  wise  and  studious  men,  and  are  known  among 
scholars  as  the  authors  of  very  valuable  works  relating 
to  the  German  language,  to  which  they  devoted  years  of 


A  Trio. 


labor.  A  son  of  William  —  the  younger  brother  —  was 
asked  one  day,  by  a  playmate,  about  his  father's  "  fairy 
stories."  The  boy  was  indignant,  and  on  getting  home, 
said,  "  Surely,  — surely,  papa,  you  never  can  have  writ- 
ten such  rubbish.  " 

And  is  it  rubbish  } 

I  suppose  it  must  be  said  —  begging  young  readers 
who  still  love  Tom  Thumb,  and  Bo-peep,  to  pardon  me 


154  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

—  that  it  is  in  one  sense  rubbish;  just  as  you  count 
dolls  and  Noah's  arks  rubbish,  when  you  have  outgrown 
such  toys.  But  what  if  you  could  make  a  collection  of 
all  the  best  dolls  and  toys  and  games  which  have 
amused  the  children  of  six  centuries  past?  Do  you 
not  think  it  would  tell  you  a  great  deal  you  would  like 
to  know  about  the  art,  the  skill,  the  material  resources, 
and  the  home  life  of  the  people  who  lived  so  long  ago  ? 

And  so  these  .stories  —  however  much  nonsense  may 
be  in  them  —  throw  light  upon  the  language  and  the 
domestic  habits  and  the  tastes  of  bygone  nations ;  and 
they  show  how  some  strange  traditions  have  held  place 
from  age  to  age ;  and  how  certain  old  stories  of  elves, 
or  giants,  or  fairies,  or  goblins  have  kept  life  in  them, 
when  great  schemes  of  philosophy  that  grew  up  beside 
them  have  died,  and  gone  out  of  remembrance. 

For  such  reasons  these  studious  German  brothers 
gave  great  care  and  labor  to  that  collection  of  house- 
hold stories,  into  the  pages  of  which  you  shall  now  take 
a  peep  with  me. 

The  Gold  ^ird. 

A  king  had  a  garden  where  golden  apples  grew ;  but, 
as  they  became  ripe,  one  of  them  was  stolen  every 
night.  The  king  was  angry ;  and  the  gardener  set 
his  sons  to  watch  —  turn  by  turn.  The  oldest,  on  his 
night,  fell  asleep ;  the  second  also  fell  asleep  when  his 
turn  came ;  but  the  youngest  son  found  that  a  gold  bird 
stole  them,  and  he  fired  upon  it  with  his  bow  (of  course 
there  were  no  shot-guns),  and  cut  away  a  golden  feather 
from  the  robber. 


FAIRY  REALM.  1 55 

This  was  shown  to  the  king,  who  found  it  so  beauti- 
ful that  he  said  he  must  have  the  bird. 

Then  the  gardener  sent  his  sons  in  search  of  the  bird, 
turn  by  turn,  again.  The  oldest  set  off,  and  met  a  fox  ; 
and  the  fox  said  to  him  (for  foxes  could  talk,  and  cats 
could  paint  pictures,  in  that  time),  ''  You  are  after  the 
Golden  Bird  —  I  know :  when  you  have  walked  all  day 
you  will  come  to  two  inns  —  one  on  either  side  of  the 
road ;  go  into  the  poorest  one,  and  you  will  fare  best  in 
your  search." 

But  the  boy  did  not  like  the  squat,  small  inn,  where 
he  had  been  advised  to  go,  but,  entering  the  other,  had 
a  jolly  time  there,  and  forgot  the  bird,  and  forgot  his 
home,  and  all  at  home  forgot  him. 

Then  the  second  son  set  off ;  and  he  met  the  fox,  and 
did  not  like  his  talk,  and  shot  an  arrow  at  him.  He 
chose  the  best-looking  inn,  and  had  a  jolly  time;  and  he 
forgot  the  bird,  and  the  king  forgot  him,  and  he  forgot 
his  home. 

Then  the  youngest  son  went  on  the  search,  though  the 
gardener  was  much  afraid  that  harm  would  come  to  him 
too.  This  son  met  the  fox,  but  he  listened  patiently 
to  Renard  ;  and,  as  he  was  tired,  the  fox  gave  him  a 
seat  upon  his  tail  (as  you  see  in  the  picture,  which  was 
made  from  one  of  George  Cruikshank's  famous  designs) ; 
and  away  he  went,  with  his  hair  whistling  in  the  wind. 

Of  course  he  minded  the  fox,  and  stopped  at  the 
humble-looking  inn  :  he  was  not  proud  like  the  others. 
In  the  morning  the  fox  met  him,  and  told  him  he  must 
go  all  day  till  he  came  to  a  castle,  in  the  courts  of 
which  castle  the  soldiers  would  be  all  asleep ;  he  must 
not  .wake  them,  but  go  through  the  corridors .  of  the 


156  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

castle  till  he  came  to  a  room  where  the  gold  bird  would 
be  found  sitting  in  a  wooden  cage.  "  But,"  said  the 
fox,  "  you  will  see  a  golden  cage  beside  the  wooden  one  : 
do  not  put  the  bird  in  that,  or  harm  will  come." 

Then  the  young  fellow  sat  again  upon  the  fox's  tail, 
and  was  whisked  away  till  the  morning  was  gone,  and 
the  noon,  and  the  sun  had  set. 

Then,  sure  enough,  he  saw  the  high  walls  of  the 
castle ;  and  he  found  the  soldiers  snoring,  and  the  gold 
bird  in  the  wooden  cage,  and  the  stolen  apples  of  gold 
beside  it.  But  the  golden  cage  that  stood  near  by  was 
very  beautiful ;  so  he  thought  he  would  venture  to  put 
the  golden  bird  in  that ;  the  king  and  all  the  rest  would 
like  it  so  much  better. 

He  had  no  sooner  done  so  than  the  bird  set  up  a 
scream  that  waked  all  the  soldiers,  and  the  soldiers 
waked  the  guard,  and  the  guard  waked  the  king ;  and 
they  took  him  prisoner,  and  would  have  killed  him.  But 
the  master  of  the  castle  said,  "  If  he  can  find  the 
golden  horse  —  and  bring  it  to  me,  he  shall  have  his 
life,  and  have  the  golden  bird." 

So  the  young  fellow  set  off :  the  fox  met  him,  and  I 
dare  say  gave  him  a  brushing  for  not  having  followed 
his  advice ;  however,  he  took  him  upon  his  tail  again  in 
search  of  the  golden  horse.  They  went  so  fast,  their 
hair  whistled  in  the  wind.  But,  for  all  that,  the  fox 
found  breath  to  tell  him  he  would  find  the  horse  in  a 
certain  castle,  with  the  groom  snoring  beside  him.  He 
must  not  wake  the  groom,  nor  put  the  golden  saddle  on 
the  horse,  but  an  old  farm  saddle,  and  then  dash  away. 

Well,  he  found  the  castle,  and  all  the  rest ;  and  he 
thought  as  the  groom  slept  so  soundly  he  might  take 


FAIRY  REALM.  1 57 

the  golden  saddle  —  it  was  such  a  splendid  one!  But 
no  sooner  had  he  put  it  on  the  golden  horse  than  the 
groom  woke,  and  the  guard  came,  and  the  poor  fellow 
was  prisoner  again. 

However,  the  people  of  the  castle  told  him  if  he  could 
bring  **  the  beautiful  princess  "  there,  he  might  have 
horse  and  saddle  both. 

So  he  went  out  to  find  "the  princess;"  and  the  fox 
met  him,  and  I  dare  say  talked  sharply  to  him  ;  but  he  set 
him  on  his  tail  again,  and  whisked  him  away  —  so  fast 
their  hair  whistled  in  the  wind  —  to  another  castle, 
where  the  princess  lived.  The  fox  told  him  he  must 
snatch  his  chance  to  kiss  the  princess,  and  then  she 
would  follow  him  ;  but  he  must  not  permit  her  to  say 
adieu  to  her  family.  This  was  a  strange  order  for  the 
fox  to  give,  but  I  suppose  he  knew. 

Now,  the  young  fellow  was  tender-hearted  ;  and  when 
he  had  caught  the  kiss  he  could  not  say  No,  —  when 
the  poor  princess  asked  to  take  leave  of  her  father 
and  mother. 

Well,  this  upset  every  thing  again ;  the  old  king  said 
he  should  not  have  his  daughter  until  he  dug  away 
a  great  hill  by  the  castle.  This  seemed  impossible  : 
however,  the  fox  helped  him — working  at  night,  when 
the  young  fellow  was  sleeping  off  the  fatigue  of  the 
day. 

And  after  a  certain  time  the  hill  was  gone  :  the 
young  gardener  got  his  princess  ;  and  by  means  of  the 
princess  (and  the  fox)  he  got  the  golden  horse  ;  and  by 
means  of  the  horse  (and  the  fox)  he  got  the  golden  bird, 
and  with  them  all  rode  off  toward  the  country  of  the 
king  of  the  golden  apples. 


158  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

But  the  lazy  sons,  who  went  to  the  wrong  inn,  and 
would  not  listen  to  the  wise  words  of  the  fox,  waylaid 
him,  and  beat  him,  and  took  his  treasures,  and  threw 
him  in  the  river. 

But  the  fox  gave  him  a  lift  with  his  bushy  tail,  and  he 
came  to  shore  once  more,  and  went  whisking  away  to 
the  kingdom  of  the  golden  apples.  And  when  his  story 
was  told  (I  dare  say  the  fox  made  it  up  for  him),  the 
lazy,  lying  brothers  were  put  out  of  the  way,  and  the 
plodding,  straightforward,  humble  brother  got  his  prin- 
cess, and  his  horse,  and  his  bi^d ;  and,  having  given  the 
bird'tothe  king,  he  had  the  princess  for  his  own,  and 
lived  very  charmingly  with  her.  He  did  not  forget  his 
good  friend  the  fox,  whom  he  met  one  day  in  the  wood 
shortly  after ;.  and  the  fox  entreated  him  to  cut  off  his 
(the  fox's)  head  and  tail. 

f  He  hesitated  a  long  whiJe  ;  but,  after  talking  it  over 
witli.' the.  princess,  he  did  as  the  fox  desired.  And  what 
do"  you  suppose  happened  then  }  Why,  the  fox  changed 
into  a  man  —  tall  and  comely,  and  in  a  royal  purple 
suit ;  and  he  turned  out  to  be  an  own  brother  of  the 
princess,  who  had  been  lost  many  years  before. 

I  suppose  he  lived  with  the  married  pair,  and  used  to 
talk  with  them  of  the  old  days  when  he  was  a  fox,  — 
just  as  retired  merchants  talk  of  the  old  days  when  they 
were  "in  trade." 


More  Queer  leasts  and  People. 

I  cannot  tell  you  of  one-half  the  queer  things  told  in 
these  books  of  old  German  tales,  so  I  must  skip  about 
from  page  to  page.     In  one,  for  instance,  I  catch  sight 


FAIRY  REALM. 


159 


of  a  fox  tied  by  his  fore-paws  to  the  branches  of  two 
trees.  How,  pray,  did  this  come  about  ?  The  story 
says  that  a  wolf,  and  a  fox,  and  a  rabbit,  were  bent  on 
learning  to  play  the  violin,  and  begged  a  musician  to 
teach  them. 


The  Three  Musicians. 


He  promised  to  do  so,  if  they  would  obey  orders. 
So,  walking  through  the  wood  with  them,  he  ordered  the 
wolf  to  put  his  paws  in  the  crack  of  a  tree  —  which  he 
did  ;  and  was  made  fast  there  —  at  his  lesson.  A  little 
farther  on,  he  bent  down  two  boughs,  and  ordered  the 
fox  to  place  a  paw  on  each,  where  the  musician  tied 
them  fast,  and  left  the  fox  — to  his  lesson.  A  little  far- 
ther on,  he  bound  the  rabbit  by  a  silken  string  to  a  tree- 
trunk,  where  he  presently,  by  bouncing  about,  wound 
himself  fast  —  to  his  lesson.  I  suppose  they  all  com- 
menced squeaking  and  howling,  each  in  his  own  way  — 
which  happens  to  a  great  many  who  commence  the 
study  of  music. 


i6o 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


They  worried  out  of  their  fastenings  at  last,  and  came 
on  fast  and  furious  to  attack  the  musician  —  who  had 
meantime  taught  a  man  that  understood  what  music 
meant,  and  who  defended  his  master,  as  he  should. 
The  beasts  had  the  worst  of  it.  I  don't  know  what  the 
moral  of  it  is  —  unless  that  animals  who  have  no  ear 
for  music  should  always  keep  to  their  howling  and 
squealing,  and  never  attack  a  good  musician  —  whose 
melody  they  cannot  equal,  and  whose  merit  they  can- 
not know. 

I  espy,  too,  among  the  hobgoblins,  little  English  Red 
Riding  Hood,  or  Red-cap  as  they  call  her,  seated  on  the 
German  ground,  with  her  basket  and  her  pretty  ways ; 
and  I  find  there  is  a  new  reading  to  her  story. 


Little  Red-cap, 


The  wolf  comes  for  her  —  drops  soft  speeches  in  her 
ear  —  but  she  doubts  him:  she  goes  to  her  grand- 
mamma with  her  comfits,  and  tells  her  how  the 
wolf  tried  to  mislead  her. 

Then   the   great  wolf  comes  croaking   to  the   door: 


FAIRY  REALM. 


l6l 


he  has  fine  gifts  for  Grandmamma ;  he  will  be  good : 
Riding  Hood  shall  have  fine  dresses. 

But  no  :  Grandmamma  is  stern,  and  keeps  the  door 
shut.  The  wolf  climbs  upon  the  roof  —  watching  and 
waiting,  and  waiting  — 

When  little  Red-cap  comes  out  he  will  snatch  her. 
But  Grandmamma  bethinks  herself  of  some  savory 
water  she  has ;  and  she  and  Red-cap  fill  a  great  trough 
with  it,  outside  the  door.  The  wolf  scents,  and  sniffs, 
and  sniffs,  and  slips  down  and  down,  and  stretches  his 
neck  to  reach  it  —  lower  and  lower  —  till  at  last,  off  he 
goes  — souse  —  into  the  trough,  and  is  drowned  there  — 
as  all  prov^ling  wolves  should  be  who  would  devour 
sweet  little  Red-caps. 


The  Elves. 

I  meet  with  hosts  of  little  elves  who  come  by  moon- 
light and  in  the  dark,  and  dance  on  the  greensward,  and 
hang  upon  tree-boughs  as  if  they  grew  there,  and  bustle 
around  babies'  cradles,  whispering  so  softly,  in  baby's 
ear,  that  nurse  never  hears  them.  They  tease  selfish  cur- 
mudgeons ;  and  they  help,  with  the  daintiest  of  fingers. 


l62  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

a  poor  cobbler  who  is  reduced  to  his  last  bit  of  leather  : 
they  transform  themselves  into  awl  and  hammer,  and 
work  all  through  the  night,  making  better  shoes  than 
the  cobbler  ever  could  have  made ;  and  he  receives 
double  price  for  their  work,  and  grows  prosperous. 

Mr.  Cruikshank  has  made  a  delicious  picture  of  the 
old  cobbler  and  his  wife  peeping  from  behind  the  door 
at  night,  to  see  these  little  elves  frolicking  around  his 
bench,  and  putting  on  the  gay  clothes  the  cobbler's 
wife  has  made  for  the  little  helpers.  The  elves  put  on 
the  new  clothes,  indeed ;  but  then  they  dashed  away, 
and  were  heard  of  no  more. 

We  talk,  you  know,  about  being  in  "■  good  spirits,"  or 
in  "bad  spirits."  I  think  those  old  Germans  who 
made  these  stories  would  have  said  instead  —  the  good 
elves  have  come ;  or  the  bad  elves  have  come.  The 
good  elves  will  stay,  —  unless  we  try  to  dress  them  up 
unnaturally,  and  extravagantly  fine.  As  for  the  bad 
ones,  —  if  we  never  hunt  after  them  at  night,  or  feed 
them  with  high-spiced  dishes,  —  they  will  go. 

The  Flower  with  a  Pearl. 

One  other  story  I  must  tell,  of  a  bad  fairy  —  a  hag,  in 
fact  —  who  lived  in  a  great  grim  castle.  By  night  she 
became  an  owl ;  by  day  she  was  sometimes  a  cat,  with 
her  back  in  a  rounded  arch.  If  young  girls  went  within 
a  hundred  paces  of  her  castle  walls,  they  were  changed 
into  nightingales,  which  the  bad  fairy  caught,  and  hung 
in  cages  in  a  certain  chamber  of  her  castle.  If  young 
men  came  within  a  hundred  paces,  they  too  had  a  spell 
upon  them,  so  that  they  could  not  move  except  the  cruel 
fairy  waved  her  wand,  and  bade  them  begone. 


FAIRY  REALM.  163 

Now,  Jorinda  and  Jorindel  —  who  were  young  people 
of  that  region  —  loved  each  other  dearly,  and  knew  all 
about  the  fairy  ;  but  yet,  as  lovers  will,  they  wandered  out 
by  moonlight,  without  knowing  how  far  they  were  going. 

Jorinda  was  singing  sweetly,  — 

"  The  ring-dove  sang  from  the  willow  spray,  — 
Well-a-day!  well-a-day! 
He  mourned  for  the  fate 
Of  his  lovely  mate  : 

Well-a-day!" 

Jorindel  was  listening,  as  lovers  will ;  and  for  a  time 
did  not  know  that  they  had  come  too  near  the  bad 
fairy's  walls,  and  that  Jorinda  was  changed,  and  he  was 
listening  only  to  a  nightingale.  He  saw  a  dreadful  owl 
flit  by  ;  and  at  dawn,  lo  !  —  there  came  the  dreadful  fairy 
with  her  cloak,  and  her  staff,  and  her  cage,  and  her  nose 
and  chin  almost  touching,  and  carried  off  Jorinda.  He 
could  not  stir  to  help  her,  you  know  ;  and,  if  he  could, 
—  how  was  he  to  help  a  nightingale  .-* 

Then  the  hag  waved  her  wand,  and  bade  him  begone. 
He  begged  and  pleaded ;  but  all  the  more  her  nose  and 
chin  came  clacking  together,  and  all  the  more  she  bade 
him  begone. 

In  despair  he  went  and  became  a  shepherd  —  listen- 
ing in  the  fields  at  night  for  the  songs  of  the  nightin- 
gales, who  reminded  him  of  his  darling  Jorinda. 

At  last,  one  night  he  dreamed  —  that  in  the  meadows 
he  found  a  scarlet  flower,  with  a  pearl  in  the  middle  of 
it ;  and  that  with  this  flower  he  marched  straight  up  to 
the  walls  of  the  fairy's  castle,  and  that  at  a  touch  of 
his  flower  the  gates  sprang  open,  and  that  he  saw  his 
own  Jorinda  again. 


1 64 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


Next  day  he  hunted  to  find  if  such  a  flower  grew  in 
those  meadows.  He  hunted  long,  —  day  after  day, — 
and  at  last  found  the  treasure.  He  went  straightway  — 
though  the  journey  was  long  —  to  the  castle  of  the  cruel 
old  woman.  And,  sure  enough,  at  a  touch  of  the  flower 
the  gates  swung  wide  open.  In  he  went,  through  cor- 
ridor after  corridor,  till    at  last   he   heard   the  singing 


Jorindel  touches  the  Cage. 

nightingales  ;  and,  in  the  room  where  seven  hundred 
cages  were  hanging,  was  the  wicked  fairy  with  her 
staff.  She  was  mad  with  rage,  but  the  flower  pro- 
tected him. 

He  looked  around  to  find  Jorinda ;  for,  lover  as  he 
was,  he  did  not  want  seven  hundred  Jorindas. 

Meantime  the  wicked  fairy  —  while  her  black  cat  was 


FAIRY  REALM. 


65 


bristling  at  Jorindel  —  was  bustling  out  of  the  door. 
She  had  seized  a  cage  to  take  with  her.  What  if  this 
were  the  very  nightingale  he  wanted  i*  He  rushed  after 
her ;  he  touched  the  cage  with  his  magic  flower,  and  lo ! 
the  tender  Jorinda,  beautiful  as  ever,  stood  before  him. 

Of  course  they  embraced,  as  lovers  —  after  a  long 
separation  —  should.  Then  Jorindel  set  all  the  other 
nightingales  free ;  and  the  great  troop  of  beautiful 
girls  marched  out  of  the  castle,  and  the  bad  fairy  was 
neither  found  nor  heard  of  again. 

It  was  a  good  thing  for  Jorinda  that  she  had  a  lover 
who  was  constant,  and  who  could  find  a  flower  with  a 
pearl  in  it. 


IX. 

A  SCOTCH   MAGICIAN. 
Ivanhoe. 

T  DON'T  think  I  shall  ever  forget  my  first  reading 
of  Scott's  story  of  ''Ivanhoe" — not  if  I  live  to 
be  as  old  as  Dr.  Parr. 

It  was  about  the  time  when  I  was  half  through 
Adams's  Latin  Grammar  (which  nobody  studies  now). 
I  was  curled  up  in  an  easy-chair,  with  one  of  those  gilt- 
backed  volumes  in  my  hand,  which  made  a  long  array 
in  a  little  upstairs  book-case  of  a  certain  stone  house 
that  fronts  the  sea.  Snowing,  I  think,  and  promising 
good  sliding  down  hill  (we  knew  nothing  about  any  such 
word  as  "coasting"  in  those  days).  But  snow  and 
sleds  and  mittens  were  all  forgotten  in  that  charming 
story,  where  I  saw  old  Saxon  England,  and  the  brave 
Coeur  de  Lion  who  was  king,  and  a  pretty  princess, 
and  dashing  men-at-arms,  and  heard  clash  of  battle, 
and  bugle  notes,  and  prayerful  entreaties  of  a  sweet 
Jewess,  and  anthems  in  old  abbeys. 

All   these  so  lingered  in  my  mind,  that  when,  years 

i66 


A    SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  l6y 

after,  I  went  rambling  through  England,  I  wandered  one 
day  all  around  the  town  of  Ashby-de-la-Zouche  to  find 
—  if  it  might  be  found  —  the  old  tournament-ground 
where  was  held  the  famous  fete  that  opens  so  grandly 
the  story  of  "  Ivanhoe  ; "  and,  in  going  through  Sher- 
wood Forest  (what  is  left  of  it),  I  think  the  Robin  Hood 
of  Scott's  story  was  as  lively  in  my  thought  as  the 
Robin  Hood  of  the  old  ballads. 

And  now  the  story  must  be  told  over  in  a  few  pages. 
A  few  pages !  Ah,  there  was  a  time  when  I  wished  the 
two  hundred  pages  could  be  stretched  into  five  hundred  ! 
I  hear  the  young  people  of  our  day  complain  that  they 
can't  like  the  long  talks  and  the  long  descriptions  ;  and 
that  Scott's  books  are  too  slow  for  them.  Well,  well ! 
I  know  that  the  day  of  chivalry,  and  of  men-at-arms, 
and  "knights  caparisoned,"  is  gone  by;  but  there  are 
old  heads  into  which  the  din  of  those  gone-by  times  does 
come  at  odd  intervals,  floating  musically,  —  and  never 
so  musically  as  on  the  pages  of  Scott.  What  if  we  try 
to  whisk  a  little  of  this  music  into  a  page  of  story.'' 

The  first  scene  shows  a  swineherd,  with  rough  jerkin  ; 
his  tangled  hair  is  his  only  cap,  and  a  brass  band  is 
around  his  neck,  and  he  is  talking  with  the  fool  Wamba, 
who  sits  upon  a  bank  in  the  forest.  They  are  the  serfs 
of  an  old  Saxon  named  Cedric,  who  lives  near  by,  in  a 
great,  sprawling,  half-fortified  country-house.  And  when 
Gurth,  the  swineherd,  and  Wamba  go  home  at  night, 
there  is  met  a  great  company  in  the  hall  of  Cedric, 
their  master.  A  famous  Templar  knight.  Sir  Brian  du 
Bois-Guilbert,  is  there  with  his  retinue  ;  and  Cedric  has 
seated  by  him  Rowena,  a  beautiful  princess,  who  is  liv- 
ing under  his  guardianship  ;  and  there  is  a  pilgrim  from 


i68 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


the  Holy  Land  in  the  company, — who  is  a  disguised 
knight  (and  the  son  of  Cedric,  but  has  been  disinher- 
ited by  the  father  because  he  has  dared  to  love  the  beau- 
tiful Rowena) ;  and  there   is  a  rich  old  white-bearded 


^:^N- 


F&;1^^ 


Swineherd  and  Wamba. 


Jew,  —  Isaac  of  York, — who  is  buffeted  by  the  com- 
pany, but  who  is  richer  than  them  all.  The  timber  roof 
of  the  apartment  is  begrimed  with  smoke,  that  rises 
from  a  great  fireplace  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  Yet  the 
meats  are  good,  and  there  is  wine  and  ale.  There  is 
talk  of  the  battles  of  the  Crusaders  in  Palestine,  and  of 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  169 

the  valiant  deeds  of  Richard  the  Lion-hearted,  who  is 
a  prisoner  (or  thought  to  be)  somewhere  on  the  Conti- 
nent ;  and  there  is  talk,  too,  of  the  great  tournament  at 
Ashby,  where  all  the  company  is  going  on  the  morrow. 
But  no  one  knows  the  secret  of  the  disguised  pilgrim, 
who  at  dawn  next  day  steals  out  secretly,  —  taking 
Gurth  with  him,  and  telling  the  swineherd  who  he 
really  is.  He  befriends  the  Jew  too ;  and  so,  through 
his  aid,  procures  a  steed  and  new  armor  for  the  battle 
of  the  tournament. 

The  Tournament, 

It  was  a  gorgeous  scene  at  Ashby.  Prince  John,  the 
usurping  king  (brother  to  Richard),  was  there  with  his 
court,  and  Rowena  —  beautiful  as  ever ;  and  still  more 
beautiful  was  Rebecca,  the  "peerless  daughter"  of  the 
Jew,  Isaac  of  York.  Of  course  there  was,  too,  a  great 
crowd  of  Saxon  knights  and  of  Norman  barons,  and  of 
people  of  all  degrees,  —  such  a  crowd,  in  short,  as 
gathers  at  one  of  our  great  fairs  or  races.  But  remem- 
ber that  very  few  of  the  great  people,  even  in  this  gath- 
ering of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion's  day,  could  write  their 
own  names  ;  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  there  was 
any  such  thing  in  existence  as  a  printed  book.  But  yet 
I  think  the  show  of  fine  feathers  and  silks,  and  coquetry, 
was  as  great  then  as  it  would  be  in  any  such  great  as- 
semblage now. 

Well,  in  all  the  knightly  sports  of  the  early  part  of 
the  day,  Bois-Guilbert  was  easily  chief ;  but  before  the 
day  ended,  a  new  knight  made  his  appearance  on  the 
field,  with  visor  down,  unknown  to  all,  and  with  only  this 


I/O  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

device  on  his  shield,  —  a  young  oak  torn  up  by  the 
roots,  and  the  word  ''Disinherited."  Everybody  ad- 
mired his  motions  and  his  carriage ;  and  everybody 
trembled  when  he  rode  bravely  up  to  the  tents  of  the 
challengers,  and  smote  the  shield  of  Bois-Guilbert  with 
the  point  of  his  lance.  This  meant  deadly  strife  ;  while, 
before  this  time,  all  the  combats  had  been  with  blunted 
javelins. 


A  Strange  Knight. 

So  the  knights  took  up  position,  and  at  a  blast  from 
the  trumpets  dashed  forward  into  the  middle  of  the 
lists,  and  met  with  a  shock  that  must  have  been  a  fear- 
ful thing  to  see.  Neither  was  unhorsed,  though  the 
lances  of  both  were  shattered  in  splinters.  At  the 
second  trial,  Bois-Guilbert  rolled  over  in  the  dust,  and 
the  strange  knight  (whose  real  name  was  Tvanhoe)  was 
declared  victor. 

The  air  rang  with  shouts,  and  Ivanhoe  rode  around 
the  lists  to  single  out  a  fair  lady  who  should  be  queen 


A    SCOTCH  MAGICIAN. 


171 


of  the  next  day's  fete.  Of  course  he  chose  Rowena, 
the  Saxon  princess,  who  sat  beside  Athelstane,  who 
was  of  royal  Saxon  blood  and  was  her  declared  lover, 
and  favored  by  Cedric,  who  sat  also  beside  her. 

But  neither  Cedric,  nor  Rowena,  nor  Prince  John 
knew  who  the  strange  knight  could  be,  since  he  had  re- 
fused to  lift  the  visor 
of  his  helmet,  or  to  de- 
clare his  name.  The 
Jew,  Isaac  of  York, 
doubtless  knew  the 
steed  and  the  armor, 
and  may  have  whis- 
pered what  he  knew 
to  Rebecca  ;  for  when 
Ivanhoe  at  evening 
sent  his  man  Gurth 
to  pay  the  Jew  for  his 
equipments,  the  beau- 
tiful Rebecca  detained 
the  messenger  at  the 
door,  and  paid  him 
back  the  money  —  and 
more  ;  saying  that  so 
true  and  good  a  knight, 
who  had  befriended 
her  father,  owed  him  nothing. 

This  was  a  most  splendid  thing  for  Rebecca  to  do, 
we  all  thought. 

The  next  day,  there  was  a  little  army  on  each  side  in 
the  contest ;  Bois-Guilbert  leading  one,  and  Ivanhoe  the 
other.     For  a  long  time  the  result  was  doubtful ;  but  at 


Rebecca  and  the   Messenger. 


172  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

last  Ivanhoe  was  beset  by  three  knights  at  once,  —  Bois- 
Guilbert,  Athelstane,  and  Front  de  Boeuf ;  and  surely 
would  have  been  conquered  if  a  new  party  had  not  ap- 
peared. This  was  a  gigantic  knight  in  black  armor, 
with  no  device,  and  who  had  acted  the  sluggard.  He 
rode  up  at  sight  of  Ivanhoe's  sore  need,  and,  with  a 
careless  blow  or  two  from  mace  or  battle-axe,  sent  Front 
de  Boeuf  and  Athelstane  reeling  in  the  dust.  After 
this,  the  victory  of  Ivanhoe  was  easy  and  complete. 

They  led  him  up  to  receive  the  crown  from  Rowena, 
the  queen  of  the  fete ;  and  they  unloosed  his  helmet, 
though  he  made  signs  to  them  to  forbear ;  and  Cedric 
knew  his  son,  and  Rowena  knew  her  lover,  and  Prince 
John  knew  the  favorite  of  the  wronged  King  Richard, 
whose  power  he  was  usurping. 

But  the  poor  knight  was  wounded  grievously ;  and, 
taking  off  his  corslet,  the  attendants  found  a  spear-head 
driven  into  his  breast.  And  he  was  taken  away  to  be 
cared  for,  —  none  knew  exactly  by  whom  ;  but  it  ap- 
peared afterward  that  it  was  by  those  in  the  employ  of 
Rebecca,  who,  like  many  ladies  of  that  day,  was  a  great 
mistress  of  the  healing  craft. 

:A  Castle. 

A  day  or  two  later,  as  I  remember,  he  was  journey- 
ing in  a  litter  under  care  of  the  Jew  and  Rebecca, 
who  were  attacked  by  outlaws  ;  and,  after  this,  claimed 
the  protection  of  Cedric  and  Athelstane,  and  their  com- 
pany, who  also  were  journeying  through  the  same  re- 
gion ;  but  these  latter  did  not  know  who  was  the 
wounded  man  in  the  litter.     Even  if  they  had  known, 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  1 73 

they  could  not  have  protected  him  against  the  enemies 
who  presently  beset  them ;  for  they  all  were  taken  cap- 
tive, and  lodged  in  the  great  castle  of  Front  de  Boeuf. 

Ah,  what  a  castle  it  was  !  What  dungeons  !  What 
mysterious  posterns !  What  embrasures,  and  courts, 
and  turrets,  and  thick  walls,  and  secret  passages ! 

I  see  in  one  of  its  dungeons  the  old  Jew,  appealing  to 
Front  de  Boeuf,  who  threatens  to  draw  out  his  teeth  one 


Front  de  Boeuf  and  the  Jew, 

by  one,  or  to  roast  him  by  the  dungeon  fire,  if  he  will 
not  disgorge  his  money. 

I  see  Rebecca,  beautiful  and  defiant,  wooed  by  Bois- 
Guilbert  as  captives  are  always  wooed  by  conquerors, 
until  with  proud  daring  she  threatens  to  throw  herself 
from  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  headlong  down  the 
walls. 

I  see  Ivanhoe  stretched  upon  his  sick-couch,  helpless, 


174  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

and  listening  yearningly  to  the  sounds  that  come  up 
from  the  castle  walls.  I  see  the  beautiful  Rebecca  — 
who  is  in  attendance  upon  him  (we  boys  were  all  so 
glad  of  that  1 )  —  exposing  herself  to  chance  arrows  from 
Robin  Hood's  band,  who  are  attacking  the  castle,  only 
that  she  may  look  out  and  report  to  the  poor  knight 
Ivanhoe  how  the  battle  is  going.  She  says  a  giant  in 
black  armor  is  heading  the  attacking  party,  and  that 
he  thunders  with  his  great  battle-axe  upon  the  postern 
gate  as  if  the  might  of  an  army  were  in  his  hand.  She 
says  the  men  go  down  under  his  strokes  as  if  God's 
lightning  had  smitten  them.  He  knows  who  it  must 
be.  It  is  —  it  can  be  no  other  than  the  Black  Sluggard 
of  the  tournament  —  Richard  I.  of  England  ! 

*'  Look  again,  Rebecca." 

*'  God  of  Abraham  !  They  are  toppling  over  a  great 
stone  from  the  battlements ;  it  must  crush  the  brave 
knight !  " 

Poor  Ivanhoe  !    Poor  captives  ! 

**  But  no,  he  is  safe  ;  he  is  thundering  at  the  gate ;  it 
splinters  under  his  blows  !  Ah,  the  blood !  the  trampled 
men  !     Great  God  !  are  these  thy  children  }  " 

Yet  even  now  there  are  inner  and  higher  walls  of  the 
castle  to  be  climbed  or  battered  down.  Never  would 
they  have  been  taken  except  there  had  been  treachery 
within.  A  wretched  woman  —  Ulrica,  victim  of  Front 
de  Boeuf  —  has  set  a  match  to  a  great  store  of  fuel,  and 
smoke  and  flame  belch  out  :  the  defenders  have  fires  to 
fight,  and  their  outposts  are  weakened  ;  and  the  attack- 
ing party  press  on,  and  secure  the  citadel.  I  seem  to 
see  smoke  and  flame,  and  crushing  towers,  under  whose 
ruins  lie  buried  Front  de  Boeuf  and  the  miserable  Ulrica. 


A   SCOTCH  MAGIC/ AN. 


175. 


I  see  Cedric  disguised  as  priest,  and  making  his  es- 
cape, and  flinging  back  bribes  in  scorn. 

Then,  upon  a  patch  of  greensward  under  the  shadow 
of  a  near  grove  of  oaks,  the  victors  gather  slowly  to 
measure  their  spoil. 

The  Saxon  Rowena  is  safe  —  so  is  the  Jew  and 
Cedric.     Athelstane  has  received  what  seems  his  death- 


Cedric  disguised  as  Priest. 

wound.  Ivanhoe  has  been  snatched  out  of  the  jaws  of 
destruction  by  the  arm  of  King  Richard,  who  bids 
Cedric  be  reconciled  with  his  son  ;  which  bidding,  the 
old  Saxon  curmudgeon  cannot  deny ;  and  he  is  half  dis- 
posed —  now  that  the  royal  lover  Athelstane  is  out  of 
the  way  —  to  favor  the  pretensions  of  Ivanhoe  to  the 
hand  and  heart  of  Rowena.  Robin  Hood,  in  his  suit  of 
green,  gets  free  grace  for  all  his  misdeeds  as  outlaw, 


176  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

and  with  one  of  his  ''merry  men,"  —  a  certain  jolly  friar 
of  Copmanhurst,  who  does  not  know  the  secret  of  the 
Black  Knight,  —  the  easy-going,  stalwart  king  has  a 
sparring-match  (which  to  every  boy  reader  of  our  time 
was  delightful) ;  and  which  ended  with  putting  the  great 
jolly  friar  sprawling  in  the  dirt.  What  a  brave,  stout 
king  was  Richard,  to  be  sure ! 

But  the  only  real  grief  among  all  who  have  been  res- 
cued is  shown  by  the  poor  old  Jew  —  not  so  much  for  the 
moneys  which  the  barons  and  the  church  people  have 
shorn  him  of,  as  for  his  daughter.  The  sweet  Rebecca 
has  not  been  crushed,  indeed,  in  the  ruin  of  the  castle ; 
but  she  has  been  borne  away  a  captive  by  a  knight  who 
was  none  other  than  the  wicked  Templar,  Bois-Guilbert. 
Whither,  none  knew ;  nor  does  the  story  of  her  seizure 
come  to  the  ears  of  Ivanhoe  (for  which,  I  fear,  Row- 
ena  was  glad),  who  is  borne  away  to  some  religious 
house,  where  he  will  have  more  orthodox,  —  though  not 
more  gentle  care  than  the  tender  Rebecca  would  have 
rendered. 

After  this,  I  seem  to  see  a  great  crowd  of  mourners 
in  some  old  monastery  or  religious  house  of  some  sort, 
bewailing  (with  good  eating  and  flagons  of  ale)  the  lost 
Athelstane ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  funeral  feast  — 
which  the  king  had  honored  with  his  presence,  and 
Rowena,  and  the  knight  Ivanhoe  —  lo!  Athelstane  him- 
self, with  his  grave-clothes  on  him,  suddenly  appears ! 
Good  old  Walter  Scott  loved  such  surprises  as  he  loved 
a  good  dinner.  The  royal  Saxon  lover  of  Rowena  was 
not  really  dead,  but  had  only  been  stunned  by  a  fearful 
blow.  But  the  blow  has  cleared  his  brain,  and  made 
him  see  that  Rowena  cares  more  for  the  little  finger  of 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  1 77 

Ivanhoe  than  for  his  whole  body ;  so  he  tells  Cedric  he 
gives  up  his  claim. 

And  what  does  Ivanhoe  say  ? 

There  is  no  Ivanhoe  to  be  found.  A  mysterious  mes- 
senger has  summoned  him  away ;  and,  though  scarce 
able  to  sit  his  horse  for  his  sore  wounds,  he  has  put  on 
his  armor,  and  dashed  through  the  outlying  forests. 
He  rides  hard,  and  he  rides  fast,  for  there  is  a  dear  life 
at  stake.     Whose  .-* 

(If  we  were  writing  a  novel,  we  should  say  "Chapter 
Second"  here,  and  make  a  break.  Then  we  should 
begin ) 

Rebecca. 

We  return  now  to  Rebecca.  Bois-Guilbert  had  in- 
deed borne  her  away,  and  had  lodged  her  in  a  great 
house  that  belonged  to  the  Knights  Templars.  But  the 
Grand  Master  of  the  Templars,  to  whom  Bois-Guilbert 
owed  obedience,  was  a  very  severe  man,  and  a  very  curi- 
ous, prying  man  ;  and  he  found  out  speedily  what  Bois- 
Guilbert  had  done  ;  and  he  found  out  that  this  young 
woman,  beautiful  as  she  was,  was  a  Jewess ;  and  there 
were  some  among  the  Templars  who  said  she  was  a 
sorceress  too,  and  had  practised  her  sorcery  upon  Bois- 
Guilbert.  So  this  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars 
brought  the  poor  girl  to  trial  for  sorcery,  though  she 
was  the  most  Christian  and  most  lovable  creature  in  the 
whole  book ! 

It  was  a  sorry,  sham  trial :  the  Templars  all  on  one 
side,  and  the  poor  Jewess  on  the  other ;  —  for  the  miser- 
able fellow,  Bois-Guilbert,  was  afraid  to  open  his  mouth 


178  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS, 

in  her  defence.  He  told  her,  indeed,  that  he  would 
save  her,  and  run  off  with  her  if  she  would  go  ;  but  she 
scorned  him  with  a  most  brave  and  beautiful  scorn. 
Of  course  she  came  off  badly  at  the  trial, — as  they 
meant  she  should.  She  was  condemned  to  be  burned. 
Only  one  chance  for  escape  was  left,  —  she  might  sum- 
mon a  knight  to  her  defence,  who  must  contend  against 
the  bravest  and  strongest  of  the  Templars.  If  her  cham- 
pion won,  she  might  go  free  ;  if  he  failed  by  a  hair's 
breadth,  the  fagots  would  be  kindled  around  her. 

But  who  would  defend  a  Jewess }  Who  would  be 
champion  for  a  suspected  sorceress  .-* 

She  craved  the  privilege  of  sending  out  a  messenger, 
in  faint  hope  of  finding  a  champion.  And  the  messen- 
ger rode  —  a  good  fellow  —  rode  fast,  rode  far  ;  'twas  he 
that  found  Ivanhoe,  and  'twas  with  him  that  the  good 
knight  left  the  scene  of  Athelstane's  coming  to  life. 

The  morning  came.  The  fagots  were  piled  up ;  the 
match-fire  was  ready  ;  the  Templars  were  all  gathered ; 
the  stout  Brien  du  Bois-Guilbert,  armed  cap-d-pie,  was 
ready  for  any  champion  ;  the  great  warning-bell  began 
tolling — One!  two!  three 

What  dust  is  that  rising  yonder }  It  is  —  it  is  a 
knight  —  in  full  armor  ;  he  approaches  —  he  comes  in 
plain  sight.  It  is  Ivanhoe  ;  but  ah  !  so  weak,  so  wearied, 
so  wasted  by  his  sickness  !  There  is  but  little  hope  for 
poor  Rebecca.  But  he  enters  the  lists ;  he  braves  the 
challenger  ;  the  trumpet  sounds  ;  the  steeds  dash  away 
to  the  encounter,  and  the  crash  of  meeting  comes. 

The  Grand  Master  strains  his  eyes  to  see  what  figures 
shall  come  out  from  the  cloud  of  dust.  One  is  down,  — 
prostrate  utterly,  —  dying.      Of  course  it  must  be  the 


Rebecca's  Trial. 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  l8l 

enfeebled  and  fatigued  Ivanhoe.     But  no  —  no  —  it  is 
not !     It  is  Bois-Guilbert  who  is  dying. 

And  what  is  this  new  cloud  of  dust  and  tramp  of  cav- 
alry ?  It  is  Richard  of  England,  who  has  followed  hard 
upon  the  track  of  Ivanhoe  ;  for  he  has  heard  of  his  er- 
rand, and  knows  he  is  unfit  to  encounter  the  strongest 
of  the  Templar  Knights.  He  has  brought  a  squadron 
of  armed  men  with  him,  too,  to  seize  upon  all  traitors  in 


The  Champion. 

the  ranks  of  the  Templars  ;  and  lo  !  above  the  roof  and 
towers  of  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Templars,  the  royal 
standard  of  England  is  even  now  floating  in  the  breeze. 
And  Rebecca  is  safe,  and  Ivanhoe  is  safe. 

And  did  he  marry  her  .^ 

Ah,  no !  He  married  the  Saxon  Rowena  ;  and  they 
had  a  grand  wedding  in  York  Minster,  where  now  you 
may  see  the  pavement  on  which  they  walked. 

One  day  after  the  wedding,  —  it  may  have  been  a 


l82  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

week  later,  —  a  visitor  asked  an  interview  with  the 
bride.  The  visitor  was  a  closely  veiled  lady  of  most 
graceful  figure.  You  guess  who  it  was,  —  Rebecca. 
She  brought  a  gift  for  the  bride  of  Ivanhoe,  —  a  gor- 
geous necklace  of  diamonds,  —  so  magnificent  that 
Rowena  felt  like  refusing  the  gift. 

'*  I  pray  you  take  them,  dear  lady,"  said  Rebecca. 
*'I  owe  this,  and  more,  to  the  good  knight, — your 
honored  " —  Here  she  broke  down  ;  but  she  recovered 
herself  presently  —  kissed  the  hand  of  Rowena  —  passed 
out. 

I  think  Rowena  was  glad  her  visitor  did  not  meet 
Ivanhoe  upon  the  stairs  ;  I  think  she  was  glad,  too,  that 
the  lovely  Rebecca  went  over  seas  presently  to  Spanish 
Granada ;  though  she  pretended  not  to  be. 

I  know  if  /  had  been  Ivanhoe But  we  will  not 

try  to  mend  a  story  of  Scott's ;  least  of  all,  when  we 
crowd  one  of  his  novels  into  a  few  pages,  as  we  have 
done  here. 


Waller  ScolVs  Eome. 

It  is  among  the  very  earliest  recollections  of  my 
school-days,  —  that  the  master,  after  some  exercise  in 
reading,  told  us  youngsters  —  with  a  grave  face  —  that 
the  great  author  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  dead.  And  I 
think  some  lout  of  a  boy  down  the  bench — with  a  big 
shock  of  hair,  and  who  was  a  better  hand  at  marbles 
than  he  ever  was  at  books  —  said,  in  a  whisper  that 
two  or  three  of  us  caught,  —  "I  wonder  who  under  the 
canopy  he  was  }  " 

I  don't  think  that,  for  any  of  us,  Scott  was  so  large  a 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  183 

man,  in  that  time,  as  Peter  Parley,  — who,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  was  at  about  that  date  writing  his  little  square 
books  of  "Travels"  in  strange  lands. 

It  was  at  a  later  day  that  we  boys  began  to  catch 
the  full  flavor  of  Waverley,  and  the  Heart  of  Mid- 
Lothian,  and  of  that  glorious  story  of  battles  and  single- 
handed  fights  in  which  the  gallant  Saladin  and  the 
ponderous  Richard  of  the  Lion  Heart  took  part.  We 
may  possibly  have  read  at  that  tender  age  his  ''Tales 
of  a  Grandfather  "  (which  will  make  good  reading  for 
young  people  now)  ;  and  we  may  have  heard  our  lady 
kinsfolk  talk  admiringly  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
and  of  Marmion  ;  but  we  did  not  measure  fairly  the 
full  depth  of  the  school-master's  grave  manner,  when  he 
told  us,  in  1832,  that  Walter  Scott  was  dead. 

For  my  part,  when  I  did  get  into  the  full  spirit  of 
Guy  Mannering  and  of  Ivanhoe,  some  years  later,  it 
seemed  to  me  a  great  pity  that  a  man  who  could 
make  such  books  should  die  at  all,  —  and  a  great  pity 
that  he  should  not  go  on  writing  them  to  the  latest 
generation  of  men.  And  I  do  not  think  that  I  had 
wholly  shaken  off  this  feeling,  when  I  wandered  twelve 
years  later  along  the  Tweed,  —  looking  sharply  out  in 
the  Scotch  mist  that  drifted  among  the  hollows  of  the 
hills,  for  the  gray  ruin  of  Melrose  Abbey. 

I  knew  that  this  beautiful  ruin  was  near  to  the  old 
homestead  of  Walter  Scott,  toward  which  I  had  set  off 
on  a  foot  pilgrimage,  a  day  before,  from  the  old  border- 
town  of  Berwick-upon-Tweed.  If  you  have  read  any 
Scottish  history,  or  if  you  have  read  Miss  Porter's 
great  story  (as  we  boys  thought  it)  of  "The  Scottish 
Chiefs,"  you  will  have  heard  of  this    old  border-town. 


l84  ABOUT   OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

I  had  kept  close  along  the  banks  of  the  river,  —  seeing 
men  drawing  nets  for  salmon,  —  seeing  charming  fields 
green  with  the  richest  June  growth,  —  seeing  shepherds 
at  sheep-washing  on  Tweedside,  —  seeing  old  Norham 
Castle,  and  Coldstream  Bridge,  and  the  palace  of  the 
Duke  of  Roxburgh.  I  had  slept  at  Kelso,  —  had 
studied  the  great  bit  of  ruin  which  is  there,  and  had 
caught  glimpses  of  Teviotdale,  and  of  the  Eildon  Hills ; 
I  had  dined  at  a  drover's  inn  of  St.  Boswell's ;  I  had 
trudged  out  of  my  way  for  a  good  look  at  Smaillholme 
Tower,  and  at  the  farmhouse  of  Sandy  Knowe  —  both 
which  you  will  find  mention  of,  if  you  read  (as  you 
should)  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott.  Dryburgh  Abbey, 
with  its  gloom,  and  rich  tresses  of  ivy  vines,  —  where 
the  great  writer  lies  buried,  —  came  later  in  the  day ; 
and  at  last,  in  the  gloaming  (which  is  the  pretty  Scotch 
word  for  twilight),  a  stout  oarsman  ferried  me  across  a 
stream,  and  I  toiled  foot-sore  into  the  little  town  of  Mel- 
rose. There  is  not  much  to  be  seen  there  but  the 
Abbey  in  its  ghostly  ruin,  I  slept  at  the  George  Inn, 
dreaming — as  I  dare  say  you  would  have  done  —  of 
Ivanhoe,  Rebecca,  and  border  wars  and  Old  Mortality. 

Next  morning,  after  a  breakfast  upon  trout  which  had 
been  taken  from  some  near  stream  (was  it  the  Yarrow  T) 
I  strolled  two  miles  or  so  down  the  road,  and  by  a  little 
green  foot-gate  entered  upon  the  grounds  of  Abbots- 
ford —  which  was  the  home  that  Walter  Scott  created, 
and  the  home  where  he  died. 

The  forest  trees  —  not  over-high  at  that  time  —  under 
which  I  walked  were  those  which  he  had  planted.  I 
found  his  favorite  out-of-door  seat,  —  sheltered  by  a 
thicket  of   arbor-vitae  trees,  —  from  which  there  could 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  185 

be  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  rippled  surface  of  the 
Tweed,  and  a  glimpse  of  the  many  turrets  which 
crowned  the  house  of  Abbotsford. 

It  was  all  very  quiet  ;  quiet  in  the  walks  through  the 
wide-stretching  wood  ;  and  quiet  as  you  came  to  the 
court-yard  and  doorway  of  the  beautiful  house.  I  think 
there  was  a  yelp  from  some  young  hound  in  an  out- 
building ;  there  was  a  little  twitter  from  some  birds  I 
did  not  know  with  my  American  eyes  ;  there  was  the 
pleasant  and  unceasing  murmur  of  the  river,  rustling- 
over  its  broad,  pebbly  bed.  Beside  these  sounds  the 
silence  was  unbroken  ;  and  when  I  rang  the  bell  at  the 
entrance  door,  the  echoes  of  it  fairly  startled  me, — 
and  they  startled  a  little  terrier  too,  whose  quick,  sharp 
bark  rang  noisily  through  the  outer  court  of  the  great 
building. 

This  seemed  very  dismal.  Where,  pray,  were  Tom 
Purdy,  and  Laidlaw,  and  Maida,  and  Sibyl  Gray } 
For  you  must  remember  I  was,  in  that  day,  fresh  from 
a  first  reading  of  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott,  in  which 
all  these  —  and  many  more  —  appear,  and  give  life  and 
stir  to  the  surroundings  of  this  home  of  Abbotsford. 

You  will  read  that  book  of  Lockhart's  some  day,  and 
you  will  find  in  it  —  that  Tom  Purdy  was  an  old  out-of- 
door  servant  of  Scott's,  who  looked  after  the  plantation 
and  the  dogs,  and  always  accompanied  the  master  upon 
his  hunting  frolics  and  his  mountain  strolls.  Laidlaw 
did  service  in  a  more  important  way  in-doors,  —  reading 
and  writing  for  the  master  of  the  house.  Maida  was  a 
noble  stag-hound,  whom  Scott  loved  almost  as  much  as 
any  creature  about  him,  and  of  whom  he  has  left  a 
charming  portrait  in  old  *'  Bevis,"  — whose  acquaintance 


l86  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

you  will  make  whenever  you  come  to  read  the  tale  of 
"  Woodstock."  As  for  Sibyl  Gray,  it  was  the  name 
of  the  stout  nag  which  carried  Scott  safely  through 
fords  and  fens. 

But,  as  I  said,  there  were  none  of  them  to  be  seen  on 
that  morning — thirty  odd  years  ago  —  at  Abbotsford. 
I  could  not  even  be  sure  that  the  terrier  which  set  up 
so  shrill  and  discordant  a  barking  belonged  to  that 
sharp  ''  Mustard  "  family,  which  traces  back  to  Dandie 
Dinmont's  home  in  Guy  Mannering. 

Only  an  old  housekeeper  was  in  charge  ;  who,  though 
she  might  have  seen  service  in  the  family,  had  fallen 
into  that  parrot-like  way  of  telling  visitors  what  things 
were  best  worth  seeing,  that  frets  one  terribly  who  goes 
to  such  a  place  with  the  memory  of  old  stories  glow- 
ing in  his  thought.  What  would  you  or  I  care, — 
fresh  from  Ivanhoe,  — whether  a  certain  bit  of  carving 
came  from  Jedburgh,  or  from  Kelso  '^.  What  should  we 
care  about  the  number  of  jets  in  the  chandelier  in  the 
great  hall }  What  should  we  care  about  the  way  in 
which  Prince  Somebody — wrote  his  name  in  the  visit- 
ors' book  1 

But  when  we  catch  sight  of  the  desk  at  which  the  mas- 
ter wrote,  or  of  the  chair  in-  which  he  sat,  and  of  his 
shoes,  and  coat,  and  cane,  —  looking  as  if  they  might 
have  been  worn  only  yesterday,  —  this  seems  to  bring 
us  nearer  to  the  man  who  has  written  so  much  to  cheer 
and  charm  the  world.  There  was  too,  I  remember,  a 
little  box  in  the  corridor,  —  simple  and  iron-bound,  — 
with  the  line  written  below  it,  —  "■  Post  will  close  at 
two." 

It  was  as  if  we  had  heard  the  master  of  the  house  say 
it  to  a  guest,  —  *'  The  post  will  close  at  two." 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN. 


187 


Perhaps  the  notice  was  in  his  own  handwriting,  —  per- 
haps not  ;  yet  somehow,  more  than  the  library,  more 
than  the  portrait  bust  of  the  dead  author,  —  more  than 
all  the  chatter  of  the  well-meaning  housekeeper,  —  it 
brought  back  the  halting  old  gentleman  in  his  shooting- 
coat,  and  with  his  ivory-headed  cane, — hobbling  with  a 
vigorous  pace  along  the  corridor,  to  post  in  that  old 
iron-bound  box  a  chapter  —  maybe,  of  Ivanhoe. 


The  Chair,  Coat,  and  Cane. 


But  no  :  Ivanhoe  was  written  before  this  great  pile 
of  Abbotsford  was  finished.  Indeed,  the  greater  part 
of  his  best  work  was  done  under  a  roof  much  more 
homely  and  modest,  —  perhaps  at  a  farmhouse  he 
once  occupied  some  miles  away  on  the  Esk,  —  per- 
haps in  the  humbler  building  which  was  overbuilt 
and  swamped  in  this  great  pile  of  masonry. 


1 88  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

It  is  not  old,  as  you  may  think :  it  has  a  vexing 
look  of  newness  for  those  who  love  his  tales  of  the 
Covenanters.  Of  course  it  was  more  vexing  thirty-three 
years   ago  than  now  ;  but  even  now,  if   you    go    there, 

—  and  all  who  go  to  Scotland  are  tempted  to  run  down 
over  that  thirty  miles  of  distance  which  separates  it 
from  Edinboro', — you  will  still  find  none  of  the  ven- 
erable oldness,  which  —  going  from  our  new  country  — ' 
we  love  to  meet. 

The  walls  and  halls  of  that  house  of  Abbotsford  are 
fine ;  but  there  are  far  finer  ones  to  be  seen  in  England 
and  Scotland.  I  do  not  know  what  mosses  may  have 
grown  over  it  during  these  thirty-three  years  last  past, 
to  make  it  venerable;  but  —  that  number  of  years  ago, 
it  wore  a  showy  newness  that  was  quite  shocking  to  one 
that  had  learned  to  think  (from  his  books)  that  dear  old 
Walter  Scott  should  have  lived  all  his  life  sheltered  by 
a  mossy  roof,  and  by  walls  mellowed  in  their  hue  by  the 
storms,  and  stains,  and  suns  of  centuries. 

I  found  no  whit  of  this  about  Abbotsford.  You 
know,  I  dare  say,  that  it  had  been  only  a  little  while  his 
home  at  the  time  of  his  death :  only  twice  after  its 
completion  had  all  the  great  rooms  been  thrown  open, 

—  once  when  his  son  Capt.  Walter  Scott,  of  the  Royal 
Hussars,  was  married  to  a  Highland  heiress ;  and  again 
when  Sir  Walter  Scott,  baronet  and  author,  lay  in  state 
there,  and  the  house  was  thronged  with  mourners. 

Its  turrets  and  great  stretch  of  courts  and  corridors 
and  halls  tell  a  mournful  story  of  that  weak  ambition  in 
him  which  sought  to  dignify  in  this  way  a  great  family 
pride.  It  was  an  ambition  that  was  not  gratified  in  his 
lifetime ;  and  now  there  is  not  one  of  his  lineage  or 
name  to  hold  possession  of  it. 


A   SCOTCH  MAGICIAN,  1 89 


Sow  and  When  Ee  wrote. 

It  is  not  so  very  long  ago  that  Scott  wrote  his 
charming  stories  :  —  since  Goldsmith  —  long  since 
Dr.  Swift  —  since  Miss  Edgeworth  made  her  fame 
(though  he  died  before  she  died)  ;  indeed,  he  is  nearer 
to  our  times  than  any  I  have  spoken  of,  or  shall  speak 
of,  in  this  budget  of  "Old  Story -Tellers."  There  are 
those  alive  who  remember  well  the  great  mystery  about 
the  Waverley  Novels  ;  —  for,  while  everybody  was  read- 
ing them,  nobody  could  say  certainly  who  wrote  them. 

Scott  did  not  place  his  name  upon  the  title-page  of 
these  books  ;  he  did  not  allow  it  to  be  known  for  years 
—  even  among  his  intimate  friends  —  who  wrote  them. 
There  were  those  who  went  to  his  home,  and  staid 
there  day  after  day,  — joining  him  in  his  rambles  over 
the  gray  hills,  —  listening  to  his  dinner  tales,  and  the 
snatches  of  old  songs  he  loved  to  recite,  —  who  said  it 
could  never  be  Walter  Scott,  who  wrote  the  tales  at 
which  the  world  was  wondering  ;  for  what  time  could 
such  a  man  find  for  such  amazing  work } 

But  there  were  keener  ones  who  noted  that  the  mas- 
ter of  the  house  never,  or  very  rarely,  showed  himself 
to  his  guests  until  after  ten  in  the  morning;  and  be- 
tween that  hour  and  sunrise — at  which  time  he  rose  — 
those  who  were  most  familiar  with  him  knew  that  this 
wonderful  work  was  done.  Never,  I  suppose,  did  any 
literary  man  work  more  rapidly.  Writing  thus,  and 
aiming  only  at  those  broad  effects  which  enchanted  the 
whole  world  of  readers,  —  he  could  not  and  did  not  give 
that  close  attention  to  his  sentences  which  Goldsmith 


igo  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

and  Swift  both  gave,  and  which  makes  their  writings 
far  safer  and  better  as  models  of  style.  He  wrote  so 
swiftly,  and  dashed  so  strongly  into  the  current  of  what 
he  had  to  say,  that  he  was  careless  about  every  thing 
except  what  went  to  engage  the  reader,  and  enchain  his 
attention. 

But  do  you  say  that  this  is  the  very  best  aim  of  all 
writing  }  Most  surely  it  is  wise  for  a  writer  to  seek  to 
engage  attention  ;  and  failing  of  this,  he  must  fail  of 
any  further  purpose  ;  but  if  he  gains  this  by  simple 
means, — by  directness, — by  clear,  limpid  language, 
and  no  more  words  than  the  thought  calls  for.  —  and 
such  rhythmic  and  beguiling  use  of  them  as  tempts  the 
reader  to  keep  all  in  mind,  he  is  a  safer  example  to  fol- 
low than  one  who,  by  force  of  genius,  can  bring  into 
large  use  extravagant  expressions,  and  great  redundance 
of  words. 

Scott  has  in  one  of  his  stories —  *' The  Talisman  "  — 
an  account  of  a  trial  of  prowess  between  Saladin,  the 
Eastern  monarch,  and  our  old  friend,  Richard  the  Lion- 
hearted.  They  are  together  somewhere  on  one  of  those 
fairy  islets  of  green,  which  are  scattered  over  the  sandy 
wastes  of  Palestine.  The  subjects  of  both  monarchs 
are  gathered  together :  there  is  peace  between  them 
for  the  time  ;  they  mingle  in  friendly  games.  The  great 
Saxon  king  —  that  is,  Richard  —  wishes  to  astonish  and 
impress  those  light-limbed  warriors  of  the  East :  so  he " 
takes  a  great  iron  mace,  or,  as  we  might  say,  a  solid 
iron  bludgeon,  and  lays  it  upon  a  block  which  he  has 
ordered  to  be  brought  into  the  presence  of  Saladin  and 
his  attendant  chieftains.  Then  he  raises  his  great  two- 
handed  broad-sword,  —  not   over-sharp,  but  immensely 


A    SCOTCH  MAGICIAN,  191 

heavy,  —  and,  sweeping  it  through  the  air,  brings  it 
down  with  a  mighty  thwack  upon  the  iron  bludgeon, 
which  straightway  falls  clanging  in  two  pieces,  —  cleft 
apart  by  the  force  of  the  king's  blow. 

The  light  cimeter  and  the  light  arm  of  Saladin  can 
do  no  such  thing  as  this  :  the  men  of  Palestine  know 
it;  the  British  warriors  —  looking  on  —  all  know  it, 
and  cannot  keep  down  a  shout  of  triumph. 

What  then  does  Saladin, — whose  turn  to  show  his 
prowess  has  now  come }  He  can  cleave  no  iron  mace  : 
he  looks  upon  the  cleft  bludgeon  with  as  much  wonder 
as  any.  He  tests  coolly  the  edge  of  his  cimeter :  he 
knows  its  keenness ;  he  knows  what  swiftness  and 
surety  he  can  give  to  its  sweep.  He  takes  a  scarf  of 
silken  gauze  —  so  fine  that  spiders  might  have  woven 
it,  — so  light,  it  seems  to  float  on  the  air,  as  the  Saladin 
tosses  it  from  him.  Then  —  quick  as  lightning,  he 
draws  his  cimeter  —  strikes  at  the  silken  gauze,  and 
the  scarf,  cleanly  divided,  drifts  in  two  parcels  down 
the  wind. 

Though  we  may  admire  almost  evenly  (as  Scott 
meant  we  should)  these  feats  of  hand,  it  is  certain  we 
could  never  approach  the  doughty  doing  of  Richard 
unless  we  were  possessed  of  his  gigantic  power  of 
muscle  ;  but  skill  and  practice  would  bring  one  to  a  very 
close  approach  to  the  deft  accomplishment  of  Saladin. 

Now,  why  have  I  brought  in  this  little  side-scene  from 
the  Talisman  }  You  must  remember  that  I  was  talk- 
ing of  words  and  style.  Do  you  see  now  my  intent  t 
A  man  of  genius — well  informed  as  to  his  subject- 
matter,  and  full  of  enthusiasm  —  may  be  sure  of  tri- 
umph, through  whatever  cumbersome  welter  of  words  ; 


192 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


but  a  better  example  for  you  and  for  me  to  study,  will 
be  the  work  of  one  who  gained  his  victories  by  simple, 
clear-cut  sentences,  that  carry  no  burden  of  repetitions, 
and  strike  straight  and  sharp  to  the  mark. 

Eis  Life  and  Ways. 

But  how  came  this  man  to  write  at  all  ?     His  father, 
who  was  a  quiet  old  gentleman  in  Edinburgh,  believed 


The  boy  Walter  Scott. 


and  hoped  that  this  son  Walter  would  keep  on  with  him 
in  that  steady  office-work — it  was  of  a  legal  sort  —  in 
which  he  himself  grew  old.  He  had  fears  indeed,  when 
Walter  was  a  boy,  that  he  would  slip  from  life  early ; 
for  he  had  a  grievous  illness  that  left  him  a  crippled 
man  always,  —  not  indeed  badly  crippled,  but  with   a 


A    SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  I93 

slight  limp  in  his  walk,  which  made  his  cane  a  thing  of 
real  service  to  him.  He  was  a  well-looking  boy, — as 
you  may  see  from  this  little  picture  of  him  in  his  child- 
hood ;  and  much  of  his  time  was  passed  with  his  grand- 
parents and  relatives  out  by  Kelso,  or  Sandy  Knowe  ; 
and  I  think  he  grew  into  a  love  for  that  region,  and 
for  all  of  Teviotdale,  and  Tweedside,  which  he  never 
outgrew. 

He  did  put  himself  to  work,  when  the  time  came  for 
it,  in  the  office  of  his  father ;  but  he  did  not  bring  a 
strong  love  for  it. 

He  had  read  ballads  out  at  Sandy  Knowe,  and  had 
listened  to  old  wives'  tales,  —  in  those  days  of  his  ill- 
ness, — which  stuck  by  him  ;  and  the  Eildon  Hills,  and 
the  blue  Une  of  the  Cheviots,  I  dare  say  kept  coming 
into  view,  over  his  desk  in  Castle  Street,  Edinburgh. 

There  were  young  fellows  too  in  the  city  —  friends  of 
his  —  who  loved  the  heather,  and  border  tales,  and  old 
lore,  as  well  as  he ;  and  we  may  be  sure  they  had  their 
junketings  together,  and  that  the  legal  work  was  none 
the  better  for  it.  There  were  certain  ballads  in  their 
times,  translated  from  the  German,  so  daintily  done, 
that  they  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among  the  literary 
people  of  Edinburgh  ;  and  the  story  ran  that  the  pretty 
and  musical  translations  were  the  work  of  Walter 
Scott,  —  a  presentable  young  man,  of  some  six  feet  in 
height,  with  a  tall  forehead,  and  bushy  eyebrows,  and 
a  limp  in  his  gait. 

Then  came  a  volume  or  two  of  collected  Scottish 
minstrelsy,  —  much  of  the  best  work  in  them  known  to 
have  been  done  by  the  same  Walter  Scott,  and  pub- 
lished with  his  name. 


t94  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

It  did  not  help  the  law  business  ;  and  when  a  jingling, 
charming  poem,  full  of  the  spirit  of  old  balladry,  and 
called  **  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  appeared 
under  his  name,  it  hurt  the  law  business  still  more ; 
and  we  may  well  believe  that  the  old  gentleman  —  his 
father  —  shook  his  head  despairingly. 

But  he  received  five  or  six  hundred  pounds  for  it,  — 
which  was  better  worth  than  two  or  three  years  of  his 
law  work. 

Still,  he  tells  us,  he  hesitated :  should  he  give  up 
rhyme-making,  and  keep  close  to  his  office } 

Well,  if  he  had  done  so,  we  might  possibly  have 
had  the  Decisions  of  Justice  Scott,,  in  law  calf;  but 
should  we  have  had  "  Ivanhoe  "  } 

His  poems  had  a  taking,  jingling  resonance,  and  a 
fire,  and  a  dash,  and  bold  rich  painting  of  Scotch  scenery 
in  them,  that  made  them  the  delight  of  all  England  and 
Scotland.     Everybody  talked  of  the  young  Mr.  Scott. 

He  married  in  this  time  a  pretty  Miss  Carpenter,  who 
was  the  orphan  daughter  of  a  French  mother,  and 
under  the  guardianship  of  Lord  Downshire.  This  was 
very  much  against  the  wish  of  the  elder  Scotts.  They 
were  too  old-fashioned  to  think  well  of  French  blood. 
But  I  believe  she  made  a  good  wife,  though  she  never 
got  over  her  broken  English,  and  always  had  over-due 
respect  for  titles ;  and  never,  I  think,  had  full  and  deep 
sympathy  with  the  higher  impulses  of  the  great  Scotch- 
man, or  any  wise  appreciation  of  his  best  work.  Per- 
haps I  ought  not  to  say  this  :  certainly  there  was  never 
any  lack  of  that  affection,  on  both  sides,  which  is,  after 
all,  the  thing  that  is  most  sure  to  make  lasting  domestic 
happiness. 


A    SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  195 

Scott's  poems  are  not  yet,  I  think,  wholly  gone  by. 
Marmion  and  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  are  still  read, 
and  are  worth  the  reading,  were  it  only  for  their  charm- 
ing glimpses  of  Scotch  landscape ;  and  if  you  ever  go 
to  Inversnaid  and  Loch  Katrine,  or  sleep  at  one  of  the 
little  ivy-embowered  inns  among  the  Trosachs,  or  look 
off  from  the  heights  of  Stirling  Castle,  —  you  will  be 
glad  these  old  poems  are  still  printed,  and  that  you  have 
read  them.  And,  if  you  never  visit  those  places,  a  read- 
ing of  the  poems  will  almost  carry  you  there. 

But  Mr.  Scott  could  not  go  on  making  poems  forever : 
he  had  lifted  all  the  blinding  mists  from  those  charming 
Scotch  lakes ;  but  when  he  carried  his  eight-syllabled 
music  —  which  was  ringing  in  everybody's  ears  —  to 
England  and  ''  Rokeby,"  there  was  a  pause  in  the  wel- 
comes that  had  greeted  him.  Besides,  Byron  had  begun 
his  chant  in  a  new  and  more  brilliant  strain. 

There  was  wisdom  in  his  decision  to  strike  a  new 
note  in  Waverley,  and  Guy  Mannering,  —  a  note  that  is 
ringing  yet.  The  clash  of  Marmion  we  only  catch  the 
hearing  of  here  and  there,  at  long  intervals ;  but  it  is 
very  hard,  I  think,  to  go  where  you  will  not  meet  those 
who  know  Dominie  Samson,  and  Meg  Merrilies. 

Do  you  ask  what  I  would  counsel  you  to  read  among 
these  novels  of  Scott  .^ 

Well  —  well !  Does  the  maple,  or  the  ash,  or  the 
pepperidge,  or  the  dogwood  show  a  richer  color  in 
autumn  }  Which  of  these  shall  we  gather  .^^  which  shall 
we  leave  ungathered } 

Whatever  else  you  may,  or  may  not  do,  in  the  reading 
of  Scott,  I  say — by  all  means  read  Old  Mortality  ;  read 
Waverley ;    read  Guy  Mannering ;    read  the   Heart    of 


196  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

Mid-Lothian ;  read  Ivanhoe  ;  and  if  you  would  be  in 
weeping  mood,  and  sigh  over  distresses  you  cannot 
help,  —  read  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor. 

I  have  told  you  that  Scott  was  not  for  a  long  time 
known  as  the  author  of  these  tales,  —  save  to  a  few  of 
his  most  intimate  friends  ;  and  the  full  story  of  it  was 
only  noised  widely,  and  to  all  the  world,  when  his  for- 
tune broke  down  under  the  weight  of  Johnny  Ballan- 
tyne's  recklessness,  and  Constables'  (his  publishers) 
canny  self-seeking,  and  the  costs  of  that  great  pile  of 
Abbotsford,  and  of  the  profitless  moorlands  he  had 
with  a  strange  ambition  heaped  together  about  his 
home. 

All  this  brought  age  to  him,  and  blight.  He  strug- 
gled bravely  indeed ;  he  wrote  in  this  time  of  breaking 
hopes  that  charming  story  of  Woodstock. 

But  he  fought  at  very  hard  odds  the  battle  of  life, 
after  this.  Great  earnings  were  small,  compared  with 
the  great  debts  that  shadowed  him. 

Death  came  too,  into  his  new  and  splendid  home  : 
Charlotte,  his  wife,  the  companion  of  so  many  years, 
died.  The  tragedy  of  Lammermoor  will  not  touch  you 
more  than  the  story  of  this  grief,  as  he  has  written  it 
down  in  a  few  swift,  crazy  words,  in  his  Diary. 

After  this,  the  wrecked  fortune,  the  loneliness,  the 
bitterness,  weighed  on  him  more  and  more.  He  went 
to  Paris,  —  seeking  some  facts  about  the  life  of  Napo- 
leon on  which  he  was  working.  But  the  beauty  of  that 
gay  capital  could  not  bring  back  the  old  cheer  and  life 
and  hopefulness  to  this  breaking  man.  He  went  to  Italy, 
the  Government  placing  a  ship  at  his  disposal  for  the 
trip ;  but  Italy,  with  its  sunny  skies,  and  wealth  of  art, 


A    SCOTCH  MAGICIAN.  197 

could  not  bring  into  his  veins  the  old  tides  of  life 
which  had  run  brimfull  along  Tweedside  and  Teviot- 
dale.  He  came  back  to  Abbotsford  a  wreck.  The 
Esk  and  the  Yarrow  murmured,  as  he  was  borne  along 
their  banks,  just  as  sweetly  as  they  did  fifty  years  be- 
fore ;  but  ear  and  heart  and  hopes  were  palsied. 

Sometimes  a  gleam  of  the  old  life  seemed  to  return, 
and  he  asked  for  his  pens,  his  ink,  and  the  old  seat  at 
his  table. 

Could  he  write  '^.  No,  the  weak  fingers  could  not 
even  grasp  the  pen.  There  was  a  new  dog  in  the  place 
of  old  Maida ;  he  could  pat  him,  and  he  did.  He  could 
say  a  kind  word  to  this  and  that  familiar  friend  ;  not 
saying  all  he  would  say,  and  stammering  through  the 
little  he  could  say. 

At  last,  in  the  sunshine  on  the  Tweed  banks,  —  there 
before  his  doors,  —  he  summons  Lockhart,  his  son-in- 
law,  to  his  side. 

"Will  he  have  Anne  (his  daughter)  called  too } " 

No,  she  —  poor  girl  —  has  slept  none  the  night  past: 
he  will  not  have  her  disturbed. 

"Lockhart,"  he  says,  "be  good  —  be  virtuous;  noth- 
ing else  will  bring  you  comfort  when  you  come  to  the 
end." 

It  was  the  end  —  for  this  great  Scotchman.  A  half- 
hour  later,  and  he  was  wholly  still. 

If  I  had  known  all  these  things  of  him  when  our  old 
master  said,  "Walter  Scott  is  dead,"  —  I  should  have 
felt  very  differently. 


X. 

ROBINSON    CRUSOE. 
Fifty  bounds  Reward. 

IN  England,  a  great  many  years  ago,  —  when  Anne 
had  just  become  queen,  and  when  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  was  making  those  dashing  marches  on  the 
Continent  of  Europe  which  went  before  the  fearful  and 
the  famous  battle  of  Blenheim ;  and  when  the  people  of 
Boston,  in  New  England,  were  talking  about  printing 
their  first  newspaper  (but  had  not  yet  done  it),  —  there 
appeared  in  the  London  Gazette  a  proclamation,  offer- 
ing a  reward  of  fifty  pounds  for  the  arrest  of  a  "  middle- 
sized,  spare  man,  about  forty  years  old,  of  a  brown 
complexion,  and  dark  brown-colored  hair,  who  wears  a 
wig,  and  has  a  hooked  nose,  a  sharp  chin,  and  a  large 
mole  near  his  mouth."  And  the  proclamation  further 
said  that  "  he  was  for  many  years  a  hose-factor  in  Free- 
man's yard,  in  Cornhill." 

And  what  do  you  care  about  this  man  with  a  hooked 
nose,  for  whose  capture  a  reward  was  offered  about  the 
year  1 703  ? 
198 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


199 


Had  he  plotted  to  kill  the  queen?  No.  Had  he 
forged  a  note  ?  No.  Had  he  murdered  anybody  }  No. 
Was  he  a  Frenchman  in  disguise  .'*     No. 

What  then .? 

He  had  written  some  very  sharp  political  pamphlets, 
which  the  people  in  authority  didn't  at  all  Hke,  and  were 
determined  to  punish  him  for. 


Danief  Defoe. 


But  T  suppose  there  were  a  great  many  hot  poUtical 
writers  who  were  caught  up  in  the  same  way  in  those 
old-fashioned  times,  and  put  in  the  pillory  or  in  prison 
for  the  very  same  sort  of  wrong-doing,  whose  names  we 
don't  know,  and  don't  care  to  know. 

Why,  then,  have  I  brought  up  this  old  proclamation 
about  this  forty-year-old,  hook-nosed  man  } 


200  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

Only  because  his  name  was  Daniel  Defoe,  and  be- 
cause he  wrote  that  most  delightful  of  all  the  story- 
books that  ever  were  written,  —  Robinson  Crusoe  ! 

To  be  sure,  he  had  not  written  '*  Robinson  Crusoe  " 
at  that  time  :  if  he  had,  perhaps  the  sheriff,  or  whoever 
sent  out  the  proclamation,  would  have  described  him  as 
the  writer  of  a  story-book  about  being  cast  away  on  a 
desert  island,  and  full  of  monstrous  fables,  instead  of 
describing  him  as  a  hosier  of  Freeman's  Court.  But  I 
don't  know.  People  in  authority  never  know  or  care  so 
much  about  the  books  a  man  writes,  as  about  the  shop 
he  keeps  and  the  debts  he  owes. 

But  did  they  catch  the  hook-nosed  man }  and  did 
somebody  get  the  fifty  pounds } 

Yes,  they  caught  him  ;  and  yes,  too,  —  about  the 
pounds. 

Poor  Defoe  had  not  only  to  go  to  prison,  but  to  stand 
in  the  pillory.  Perhaps  you  do  not  know  what  the  pil- 
lory was.  It  was  a  movable  framework  of  wood,  so 
arranged  that  a  criminal  was  forced  to  stand  in  it  with 
his  head  and  hands  thrust  through  holes  in  a  plank ; 
and  in  this  condition  he  was  put  on  show  in  the  public 
streets.  It  was  an  awkward  position  for  a  man  to  be 
placed  in ;  and  when  he  was  disliked  by  the  crowd,  he 
was  pretty  sure  to  have  mud  thrown  at  him,  and  to  be 
met  by  jeers  and  hootings.  What  if  some  of  our 
thieves  and  forgers  were  to  be  set  up  in  this  way  at  the 
head  of  Wall  Street ! 

We  thank  God  that  we  have  outlived  the  times  of 
such  savage  treatment.  I  wish  we  could  thank  God 
that  we  had  outlived  the  crimes  which  seem  to  de- 
serve it. 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE,  201 

But  Defoe,  in  those  political  writings  I  spoke  of,  had 
said  no  worse  things,  and  no  more  severe  things,  than  we 
meet  with  nowadays  in  our  newspapers.  Nor  was  the 
crowd  of  street  people  imbittered  against  him  :  in  fact, 
they  brought  garlands  of  flowers,  and  placed  on  the  pil- 
lory, and  threw  roses  in  the  street  as  the  officers  moved 
him  from  place  to  place. 

He  had  been  befriended  by  King  William,  who  died 
only  a  short  time  before;  and  who  —  as  you  know  — 
had  been  brought  over  from  Holland  to  govern  England 
in  place  of  James  the  Second,  who  had  been  driven 
away  from  the  throne. 

Ihe  Culprit's  Work. 

What  had  most  brought  him  into  favor  with  King 
William  and  his  government,  was  a  little  pamphlet  in 
rhyme  which  he  had  written, — called  the  True-born 
Englishman  ;  and  this  had  met  with  great  favor  too, 
from  the  people  of  London.  It  had  been  written  to 
show  that  those  acted  very  unwisely  who  found  fault 
with  King  William  for  being  a  foreigner,  — and  to  show 
further  that  the  whole  population  of  England  was  made 
up  by  the  mingling  of  different  nationalities  ;  and  that 
every  man  was  to  be  judged  by  his  devotion  to  the  in- 
terests of  Britain,  and  not  by  his  race  or  birth.  This 
would  very  naturally  be  well  relished  by  a  great  city 
population,  which  had  come  from  all  quarters.  No  book 
—  it  was  only  a  small  pamphlet,  to  be  sure  —  had  met 
with  so  large  a  sale  for  years  and  years.  Hence,  I 
think,  came  those  flowers  which  were  hung  upon  the 
pillory  where  Daniel  Defoe  was  set  up  in  1703. 


202  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

He  had  written  other  things  as  well,  which  had  made 
him  well  known  ;  —  among  the  rest  a  satire  in  rhyme 
called,  "  Advice  to  the  Ladies  :  Showing  that  as  the 
World  goes,  and  is  like  to  go,  the  best  way  is  for  them 
to  keep  Unmarried." 

You  would  think  this  a  strange  way  to  make  himself 
popular.  But  he  says  in  the  preface  to  this,  —  **  You 
will  say  'tis  a  great  fault  to  persuade  People  against 
Marriage.  I  answer,  '  That  to  the  utmost  of  my  power 
I  will  ever  expose  those  Infamous,  Impertinent,  Cow- 
ardly, Censorious,  Sauntering,  Idle  Wretches,  called 
Wits  and  Beaux,  the  Plague  of  the  Nation,  and  the 
Scandal  of  Mankind.  But  if  Lesbia  is  sure  she  has 
found  a  Man  of  Honor,  Religion  and  Virtue,  I  will 
never  forbid  the  Banns  :  let  her  love  him  as  much  as 
she  pleases,  and  value  him  as  an  Angel,  and  be  married 
to-morrow  if  she  will.'  " 

Now,  as  every  young  woman  thinks  she  has  found  the 
Angel,  when  it  comes  to  the  fact  of  marriage,  I  think 
other  flowers  would  have  been  given  to  Defoe  on  this 
score. 

But,  nevertheless,  he  had  the  prison  before  him  ;  and 
he  tells  us  he  had  an  awful  time  there,  and  chafed  hor- 
ribly. He  was  one  of  those  restless,  impatient  busy- 
bodies,  who  want  always  to  be  at  work,  and  at  work  in 
their  own  way.  He  did,  in  fact,  edit  a  ''  Review  "  while 
he  was  in  prison,  —  and  procured  the  printing  of  it,  — 
in  which  there  was  a  great  deal  of  sharp  talk. 

He  was  what  would  have  been  called  in  our  time,  I 
dare  say,  a  hot-headed  radical ;  and  if  he  had  been  born 
a  century  and  a  half  later,  would  have  made  a  capital 
editorial  writer  for  a  slashing  morning  journal,  in  either 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE,  203 

New  York  or  Washington.  But  our  people  in  authority 
would  never  have  offered  a  reward  for  his  arrest :  they 
would  have  shrugged  their  shoulders ;  or,  perhaps,  have 
given  him  an  ofifice. 

Yet,  for  all  his  political  sharpness,  this  hook-nosed 
man  had  a  head  for  business,  —  or,  at  least,  for  projects 
of  business.  Some  four  years  before  the  prison  experi- 
ence, he  had  published  an  ''Essay  on  Projects,"  which 
was  full  of  excellent  suggestions,  but  in  advance  of  his 
time.  Dr.  Franklin  relates,  that  he  fell  in  with  a  copy 
of  this  book  in  his  father's  library,  when  a  young  man, 
and  that  he  gained  ideas  from  it,  which  had  great  influ- 
ence with  him  in  after-life. 

The  business  project  into  which  Defoe  did  really 
enter  was  the  establishment  of  tile-works  at  Tilbury  — 
where  were  made  first  in  England  those  queer-shaped 
tiles  for  roofing,  which  —  if  you  ever  go  there  —  you 
will  see  on  a  great  many  of  the  houses  of  Rotterdam 
and  Amsterdam  ;  and  some  of  them  are  to  be  found  yet 
upon  old  houses  in  some  of  our  southern  seaboard 
cities. 

A  few  years  ago  —  in  1 860  —  the  workmen  upon  a 
new  railway  cutting  dug  through  the  meadow  where 
these  tile-works  of  Defoe  had  stood ;  and  they  turned 
up  a  great  many  broken  tiles,  and  some  curiously-shaped 
tobacco-pipes.  And  it  happened  that  some  visitor,  who 
knew  the  history  of  the  place,  told  these  workmen  that 
the  tiles  they  were  turning  up  had  been  made  by  the 
writer  of  Robinson  Crusoe :  straightway  there  was  a 
rush  to  gather  the  best  fragments  —  most  of  all  the 
pipes.     They  had  read  the  book. 

I  think  I  should  have  liked  myself  to  lay  hold  of  one 


204  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

of  those  pipes,  and  compare  it  with  one  which  Robinson 
contrived,  and  rejoiced  over  in  his  cavern,  —  though  "it 
was  a  clumsy  thing,  and  only  burnt  red  like  other 
earthern-ware." 

But  the  prison  life  made  an  end  of  the  pottery  works. 
He  could  write  in  Newgate,  and  did  ;  but  he  could  not 
superintend  the  tile-yard. 

There  were  good  friends  of  his  who  meanwhile  were 
bestirring  themselves  to  loose  poor  Defoe  from  his 
prison  life.  Though  he  was  doing  more  work  there 
than  most  men  were  doing  outside ;  yet  the  narrow 
bounds  of  the  prison-yard,  and  the  bad  air,  and  the  con- 
tact with  all  sorts  of  wretched  criminals,  were  wearmg 
upon  his  health  and  strength ;  so  that  when  at  last  a 
messenger  came  to  him  from  one  high  in  power — asking 
what  could  be  done  for  him ;  he  says  that  he  took  his 
pen,  and  wrote  the  reply  of  the  blind  man  in  the  Gospel, 
'*  Lord,  dost  thou  see  that  I  am  blind,  and  yet  ask 
what  thou  shalt  do  for  me  '^.  My  answer  is  plain  in  my 
misery,  —  Lord,  that  I  may  receive  my  sight." 

This  meant  liberty ;  and  he  was  given  his  liberty  a 
short  time  afterward. 

Eis  Family. 

I  have  told  you  he  was  the  author  of  that  book  you 
all  know  so  well ;  but  because  he  wrote  that  book 
you  must  needs  want  to  know  who  was  his  father,  and 
what  lie  did,  and  if  he  had  a  wife  or  children. 

Well,  his  father  was  not  a  man  who  could  put  his  son 
into  relations  with  people  in  high  place,  —  as  Sir  Wil- 
liam Temple  did  for  Jonathan  Swift,  —  not  far  from  the 
same  time. 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE.  205 

Defoe's  father  was  a  butcher  —  named  James  Foe  — 
in  the  parish  of  St.  Giles,  in  the  city  of  London, — where 
Daniel  was  born.  How  his  father's  simple  name  of 
Foe  grew  into  Defoe,  is  something  that  I  am  afraid 
could  not  be  explained  without  saying  that  our  good 
friend  Daniel  had  the  vanity  to  think  that  the  long  name 
sounded  better  than  the  short  one  ;  —  which  is  after  all, 
no  worse  a  vanity  than  that  of  our  lady  friend,  who 
thinks  a  long  ribbon  to  her  hat  is  more  becoming  than 
a  short  one. 

Not  that  Defoe  was  ashamed  of  his  parentage  :  no, 
no,  —  ten  times  over.  Always,  when  he  speaks  of  his 
father,  it  is  with  respect  and  love.  And  there  is  noth- 
ing to  show  that  he  did  not  deserve  it.  He  certainly 
sent  him  to  a  good  school,  and  would  have  given  him 
a  training  to  be  a  clergyman  ;  this  was  not  to  Daniel's 
taste,  so  he  became  a  hosier,  and  then — failing  in  that 
—  went  into  tile-making  (as  we  have  seen),  to  which 
the  prison  brought  an  end. 

A  British  admirer  says  that  his  grandfather,  Daniel 
Foe,  "kept  hounds  "  in  Northamptonshire,  — as  if  keep- 
ing hounds  to  kill  foxes  (for  sport)  were  a  great  deal 
better  than  keeping  sharp  knives  to  kill  lambs  (for 
food).  Perhaps  so ;  at  least  it  is  one  of  those  SQcial 
puzzles  with  which  the  Daniel  Defoe  who  wrote  the 
True-born  Englishman  did  not  concern  himself  greatly. 
Hear  what  he  says,  in  what  is  very  bad  poetry  cer- 
tainly :  — 

"  Then  let  us  boast  of  Ancestors  no  more, 
Or  Deeds  of  Heroes  done  in  days  of  yore ; 
For  Fame  of  Families  is  all  a  cheat: 
'Tis  Personal  Virtue  only  makes  us  great." 


2d6  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

But  perhaps  he  wrote  in  this  way  because  he  could 
make  no  boast  himself.  It  is  poorly  worth  while  to  in- 
quire. When  we  find  a  man  writing  common  sense, 
the  presumption  ought  to  be  that  he  writes  thus  because 
it  is  common  sense. 

Did  the  author  of  Robinson  Crusoe  have  a  wife  and 
children  }  Oh,  yes  !  —  there  were  some  six  children, 
and  a  wife,  to  whom  Queen  Anne  sent  a  gift  of  a  hun- 
dred pounds  —  the  while  her  husband  was  in  prison. 
Defoe  slipped  out  of  London  the  moment  he  was  set 
free  from  Newgate,  —  to  go  down  and  meet  that  wife 
and  those  children,  who  were  living  just  then  in  the 
old  town  of  Bury-St. -Edmunds. 

[The  name  of  that  town  sounds  familiar  :  did  you 
ever  hear  it  before }  Have  you  ever  read  Pickwick  } 
Didn't  Mr.  Pickwick  take  a  coach-ride  in  that  direction 
once  1  And  was  there  not  an  Angel  Inn  }  and  a  man 
in  a  mulberry  suit  i^] 

He  did  not  go  back  into  trade,  —  either  hosiery  or 
tile-making ;  perhaps  he  saw  his  unfitness  for  it.  There 
is  something  in  a  book  he  wrote  called  '*  The  Complete 
Tradesman,"  which  looks  like  it. 

''A  wit  turned  Tradesman  !  "  he  says  :  ''what  an  in- 
congruous part  of  Nature  is  thus  brought  together !  No 
apron-strings  will  hold  hirn ;  'tis  in  vain  to  lock  him  in 
behind  the  counter,  he's  gone  in  a  moment  ;  instead  of 
journal  and  ledger,  he  runs  away  to  his  Virgil  and 
Horace." 

But  you  must  not  believe  he  was  very  poor  :  some  of 
the  people  about  Queen  Anne  found  out  that  he  was  a 
most  serviceable  writer ;  and  he  was  sent  down  to  Scot- 
land, under  pay,  to  help  forward  some  designs  of  the 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE. 


207 


government.  The  Scotch  did  not  like  him,  for  they  did 
not  hke  the  business  he  was  sent  upon  ;  and  though  he 
wrote  a  poem  on  Caledonia  to  put  them  in  good  humor, 
it  did  not  succeed. 

His  pen  was  all  the  while  busy  however,  but  mostly 
with  political  matter,  which  passed  out  of  sight  with  the 
occasion  that  called  it  up.  There  was  though  an  ac- 
count of  the  apparition  of  Mrs.  Veal  (after  death,  and  in 


House  where  "Robinson  Crusoe"  was  written. 


a  scoured  silk  gown)  to  one  Mistress  Bargrave,  which 
set  all  the  street  world  of  London  agog.  It  was  so 
wonderfully  told !  —  so  well  told,  people  thought  Mrs. 
Veal  must  have  come  to  life ;  and  crowds  went  hunting 
after  Mrs.  Bargrave  to  hear  if  it  were  really  so. 

Fifteen  years  or  more  after  he  went  out  of  prison, 
down  to  Bury-St.-Edmunds,  we  hear  of  him  as  living  in  a 


208  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

big  house  which  he  had  built  at  Stoke-Newington  with  a 
coach-house  attached.  This  meant  —  as  it  does  not 
always  mean  now  —  that  he  had  money.  There  were 
some  five  acres  of  pleasure  ground  attached,  where  he 
pleased  himself  with  working  at  gardening. 

He  had  certainly  three  daughters  living  with  him 
there,  besides  his  wife  Susannah.  And  his  daughters 
were  quick-witted,  winning  girls  ;  Sophia  being  the 
most  so  :  she  married,  ten  years  later,  a  Mr.  Baker,  who 
is  authority  for  this  account  of  them  all. 

And  in  this  big,  square,  uncomely  house,  —  of  which 
I  show  you  a  picture,  —  was  written  in  the  year  171 8 
by  this  hook-nosed  man  —  then  well  on  toward  sixty 
years  of  age  —  "  The  Life  and  Strange  Surprising  Ad- 
ventures of  Robinson  Crusoe,  of  York,  Mariner,  who 
lived  Eight-and-Twenty  Years,  all  alone,  in  an  Unin- 
habited Island  on  the  Coast  of  America,  near  the  mouth 
of  the  great  River  Oroonoque." 

Ihe  Book, 

Ah,  what  a  book  it  was  !  what  a  book  it  is  ! 


You  do  not  even  know  the  names  of  those  political 
pamphlets  which  this  man  wrote,  and  which  made  him  a 
friend  of  the  great  King  William,  and  gave  him  fame; 
nor  do  you  know  the  names  of  those  others  which 
brought  him  to  prison  ;  nor  do  you  know  the  names  of 
those  later  ones  which  made  Queen  Anne  befriend  him, 
and  kept  her  his  friend  until  the  queen  died ;  nor  do 
you  know  —  nor  do  your  fathers  or  mothers  know  much 
about  those  other  books  which  this  man  wrote  upon 
Trade,  and  Religious  Courtship,  and  a  score  of  other 


Robinson  Crusoe. 


^       ROBINSON  CRUSOE.  211 

things  ;  nor  are  they  by  anybody  much  read  or  called 
for.  But  as  for  that  dear  old  figure  —  in  the  high  goat- 
skin cap,  —  and  with  the  umbrella  to  match,  —  and  the 
long  beard,  —  who  does  not  know  him,  and  all  about 
him,  all  over  the  Christian  world  ? 

Why,  long  as  it  is  since  I  first  trembled  over  the  sight 
of  those  savage  footmarks  in  the  sand,  and  slept  in  the 
cave,  and  pulled  up  the  rope-ladder  that  hung  down  over 
the  palisades, — yet,  if  that  dear  old  Robinson  in  his 
tall  cap  and  his  goat-skin  leggings  were  to  march  up 
my  walk  on  some  mild  spring  evening,  I  don't  think 
I  should  treat  him  as  a  stranger  in  the  least.  I  think  I 
should  go  straight  to  him,  and  clap  him  on  the  back,  and 
say,  — 

**  My  dear  Mr.  Crusoe,  I'm  ever  so  glad  to  see  you  ! 

"  And  did  Friday  come  with  you  } 

*'  And  is  Poll  at  the  station } 

"  And  have  you  been  to  York  .-* 

"  And  do  you  think  of  going  to  sea  again  }  " 

I  don't  know  any  figure  of  the  last  two  centuries  that 
it  would  be  so  hard  to  blot  out  of  men's  minds  as  the 
figure  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

How  came  this  hook-nosed  man  to  write  it  .-^ 

Well  —  Queen  Anne  was  dead  :  this  had  thrown  him 
somewhat  off  his  track.  Then,  the  people  about  George 
I.  who  had  just  come  to  the  throne  did  not  much  favor 
Mr.  Defoe ;  perhaps  they  were  afraid  of  him  ;  perhaps 
they  thought  him  gone  by,  and  useless.  Perhaps  Han- 
over George  had  too  many  friends  of  his  own. 

But  what  suggested  such  a  subject  .^  Was  there  really 
a  Mr.  Robinson  whose  father  lived  down  at  Hull  1 

No  :   but  there  had  lived   a'  man  named   Selkirk,  — 


212  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLFRS. 

Alexander  Selkirk,  —  in  Fife,  Scotland,  who  went  mate 
on  a  trading-voyage  with  Capt.  Stradling,  in  a  ship  called 
the  Cinque  Ports. 

Off  the  island  of  Juan  Fernandez,  which  is  abreast 
of  Chili  on  the  South  American  coast,  Selkirk  fell  into  a 
quarrel  with  his  captain  ;  and,  being  a  high-strung  young 
fellow,  he  said  he  would  rather  be  put  ashore  than  to 
sail  with  the  captain  farther. 

So  the  captain  put  him  ashore  —  with  only  his  bed- 
ding, a  gun,  and  a  very  few  such  useful  things.  He 
staid  alone  on  that  island  four  years  and  four  months 
before  a  British  ship  touched  there  by  accident,  and 
brought  him  off.  He  was  in  goat-skin  clothes,  and  had 
his  last  shirt  on  when  Capt.  Dover  took  him  off. 

This  much  was  all  true  as  gospel,  and  was  printed  in 
Woodes  Rogers's  account  of  his  voyage  in  171 2  (being 
seven  years  before  Robinson  Crusoe  was  printed)  :  the 
whole  story  of  Woodes  Rogers  would  have  filled  about 
one  column  of  a  newspaper. 

Some  jealous  people  said  Defoe  stole  his  story  of 
Robinson  Crusoe  from  it. 

But  a  man  can't  steal  a  silver  dinner-service  out  of  a 
pewter  plate. 

He  used  the  incidents  without  question,  —  as  any  one 
else  might  have  done  —  but  didn't.  Ten  shipwrecked 
men  might  tell  their  stories  to  you  or  me,  and  yet  no 
Robinson  Crusoe  come  of  it. 

There  are  plenty  of  good  incidents  all  abroad ;  it  is 
the  art  which  builds  upon  them  that  is  rare,  and  which, 
in  place  of  a  jumble  of  words  that  will  set  the  facts 
only  before  you,  will  twist  out  of  them  a  drama  that 
kindles  your  passions  and  your  love,  and  dwells  with 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE.  21 3 

you  as  a  tender  memory  forever.     And  all  this  is  done 

—  not  by  fine  words  and  long  words,  and  by  what 
young  people  are  apt  to  call  —  splendid  writing.  This 
"  splendid  "  writing  is  indeed  a  very  bad  thing  to  aim 
at,  and  the  very  last  thing  to  admire.  I  wish  all  school- 
masters thought  so  ;  but  unfortunately  they  do  not. 

How  could  any  thing  be  more  homely  and  modest 
and  straightforward  than  the  language  which  Defoe 
uses  to  tell  the  adventures  of  Robinson  }  Yet  no  words 
could  be  better  for  the  purpose  he  had  in  mind  ;  —  and 
that  was  —  to  make  everybody  feel  that  the  things  told 
of  did  really  and  truly  happen. 

There  were  critics,  to  be  sure,  who,  in  the  day  of  its 
first  printing,  thought  it  was  "■  carelessly  written,"  and 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  which  was  very  ''  improba- 
ble "  in  it ;  and  they  didn't  imagine  for  a  moment  that 
there  was  the  stuff  in  it  which  would  be  pondered,  and 
read  over  and  over,  and  admired  and  dearly  cherished 

—  years  and  years  after  they  and  all  their  fair  culture 
and  fine  words  and  very  names  should  be  forgotten. 

I  don't  at  all  believe  that  Defoe  himself  knew  how 
good  a  thing  he  had  done.  If  he  had,  he  wouldn't  have 
gone  about  to  weaken  its  effect  by  writing  a  sequel  to 
Robinson  ;  which,  though  it  has  some  curious  and  won- 
derful things  in  it,  is  yet  hardly  worth  your  reading. 
And  not  content  with  this,  Defoe  —  under  the  spur,  I 
suppose,  of  money-making  publishers,  —  wrote,  the  next 
year,  ''  Serious  Reflections  during  the  life  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,  with  his  Vision  of  the  Angelic  World." 

Nobody  knows  it  or  reads  it.  Poll  and  Man  Friday 
are  all  alive ;  but  the  Vision  of  the  Angelic  World  is 
utterly  dead. 


214  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

Defoe  also  published  shortly  afterward  the  History  of 
the  Life  and  Adventures  of  Mr.  Duncan  Campbell ;  and 
in  the  same  year  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier.  This  last, 
however,  was  understood  to  be  based  upon  a  manuscript 
written  by  another  hand.  The  following  year  there 
appeared  by  Defoe  "■  The  Life,  Adventures,  and  Piracies 
of  the  famous  Captain  Singleton."  But  I  cannot  tell 
you,  nor  would  you  care  to  know,  the  names  of  all  that 
he  wrote.  The  titles  alone,  if  I  were  to  write  them  out 
in  full,  would  fill  a  hundred  pages  as  large  as  this. 

His  Religious  Courtship  may  entertain  you  if  you 
happen  to  be  of  age  for  thinking  on  such  a  subject ; 
and  his  Complete  Tradesman  has  a  great  many  capital 
suggestions  in  it, — full  of  the  pith  which  belonged  to 
Poor  Richard's  maxims. 

He  wrote  also  a  long  history  of  the  Great  Plague  in 
London,  which  is  so  dreadfully  real  that  it  would  make 
you  shudder  to  read  it.  You  seem  to  see  all  the  sick 
people,  and  the  dead  ones  with  their  livid  faces  ;  and  the 
wagons  that  bore  the  corpses  go  trundling  every  morn- 
ing down  the  street.  You  would  wonder,  if  you  read  it, 
how  old  man  Defoe  could  have  gone  about  prying 
amongst  such  fearful  scenes,  as  if  he  loved  grief  and 
wailing  and  desolation  ;  for  he  don't  tell  you  that  he 
helped  anybody,  or  even  lifted  the  dead  into  the  carts. 
How  could  he  .-^  He  wasn't  there  at  all.  The  Great 
Plague  raged  and  ended  before  Defoe  was  grown.  He 
may  have  heard  old  men  and  old  women  talk  of  it ;  but 
he  couldn't  have  been  more  than  two  years  old  when  it 
first  broke  out. 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE.  21$ 


Good'by,  Robinson! 

But  I  will  close  this  half-hour's  talk  with  only  dear 
old  Robinson  Crusoe  in  our  mind.  Defoe  wrote  of  him, 
as  I  said,  when  he  was  well  toward  sixty  ;  and  he  lived 
to  be  over  seventy,  —  having  a  great  grief  to  bear  at  the 
last.  His  son  deserted  and  deceived  him  as  Robinson 
Crusoe  had  deserted  and  deceived  his  old  father  at 
York ! 

"This  injustice  and  unkmdness,"  writes  Defoe  to  a 
near  friend  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  "  has  ruined  my 
family,  and  has  broken  my  heart.  I  depended  on  him,  I 
trusted  him,  I  gave  up  my  two  dear  unprovided  children 
into  his  hands  ;  but  he  had  no  compassion,  and  suffered 
them  and  their  poor  dying  mother  to  beg  their  bread  at 
his  door  ;  himself,  at  the  same  time,  living  in  a  profu- 
sion of  plenty.  It  is  too  much  for  me.  My  heart  is 
too  full.  Stand  by  them  when  I  am  gone,  and  let  them 
not  be  wronged." 

This  is  a  true  letter  of  Defoe's,  and  one  of  the  last 
which  he  ever  wrote  ;  but  the  old  man  was  sadly  broken 
in  the  latter  years  of  his  life,  and  looked  too  despairingly 
upon  his  home  affairs  :  it  is  certain  that  his  wife  did 
not  beg  her  bread,  nor  was  she  at  that  time  in  a  dying 
condition.  But  I  suspect  there  was  only  too  good 
ground  for  his  shaken  confidence  in  the  son ;  and  I 
fear  the  poor  old  gentleman  died  without  forgiving  him, 
and  without  being  asked  to  forgive. 

He  lies  buried  in  Bunhill  Fields — where  Bunyan  lies 
buried  too.  The  epitaph  which  would  commemorate 
him  best  would  be  one  which  should  say  simply,  *'  He 


2l6 


ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 


wrote  the  story  of  Robinson  Crusoe."  And  methinks 
a  figure  of  the  dear  old  adventurer  in  his  goat-skin 
clothes,  and  his  goat-skin  cap,  might  well  stand  upon 
his  grave. 


Saving  Traps  from  the  Wreck. 


Who  would  not  know  W.  Who  has  not  read  the 
book  }  How  could  people  help  reading  it }  How  could 
they  help  being  terribly  concerned  about  the  fate  of 


ROBINSON  CRUSOE.  21/ 

that  madcap,  who  would  leave  that  sober  old  father  of 
his  in  Hull,  and  that  mother  who  cried  over  his  fate, 
you  may  be  sure,  more  than  ever  you  or  I  ?  Who  could 
help  reading  on,  when  he  escaped  so  hardly  from  wreck 
and  death,  on  the  shores  of  England,  near  to  Yarmouth ; 
and  fell  in  with  such  bad  fellows  in  London ;  and  hesi- 
tated, and  wavered,  and  finally  broke  into  new  vaga- 
bondage ;  and  was  followed  up  by  storms  and  wreck, 
and  at  last,  as  you  know,  cast  ashore  with  scarce  life  in 
him,  on  that  far-away  island,  where  he  bewailed  his  fate 
for  months  and  years,  and  toiled  hard,  and  tamed  his 
goats,  and  planted  his  palisades? 

A  great  many  thousand  eyes  looked  out  with  him, 
year  after  year,  for  the  sail  that  never  came.  Of  course 
there  had  been  a  great  many  stories  of  adventures  writ- 
ten before,  and  there  have  been  a  great  many  since ; 
but  never,  I  think,  any  that  took  such  hold  of  the  feel- 
ings of  9,11,  as  this  story. 

Why,  do  you  know  that  crowds  of  people  believed  in 
Robinson  Crusoe  when  Defoe  was  living,  and  continued 
to  believe  in  him  after  Defoe  was  dead  ?  I  know  I  be- 
lieved in  him  a  long  time  myself ;  though  the  preface, 
and  the  sober-sided  old  school-ma'am  (who  caught  me 
one  day  at  the  reading  of  it  in  school-hours,  and  made 
me  wear  a  girl's  bonnet  for  punishment),  —  though  such 
as  these,  I  say,  warned  me  that  it  was  a  fable  and 
untrue,  yet  I  kept  on,  somehow,  believing  in  Robin- 
son, and  in  Poll,  and  Man  Friday  ;  and  thought,  if  I 
ever  did  make  a  long  voyage,  and  the  ship  had  a  yawl, 
I  would  ask  the  captain,  when  he  came  opposite  the 
island,  to  "heave  to,"  and  let  me  go  ashore  in  the  yawl, 
and  find  the  cave  and  the  creek,  and  very  likely  the 


2l8 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


remnants  of  that  big  canoe  in  the  forest,  which  Robin- 
son Crusoe  hewed  from  so  huge  a  log  —  that  he  never 
could  and  never  did  move  it. 


Robinson  at  Honne. 


I  believed  in  that  old  deserted  father,  down  in  York- 
shire: —  somehow,  I  think  he  is  living  there  yet,— 
repining,  grieving,  praying,  weeping ! 

Oh,  Robinson,  Robinson  ! 


XI. 


HOW   A   TINKER   WROTE   A   NOVEL. 


Travels  of  Chrisiian, 


ONCE  upon  a  time  —  years  and  years  ago  —  I 
wanted  some  good  Sunday  book  to  read  ;  and 
when  the  want  was  made  known,  I  was  helped  to  a  big, 
leather-bound,  octavo  book,  which  at  first  glance  —  not- 
withstanding one  or  two  large  splotches  of  gilt  upon  the 
back  —  did  not  look  inviting.  In  the  first  place,  what 
boy  wants  to  grapple  with  a  big  octavo  ?  Your  precious 
old  aunt  will  tell  you  what  an  octavo  is,  —  that  it  means 
a  book  with  its  paper  folded  so  as  to  make  eight  leaves 
of  every  sheet,  whereas  a  duodecimo  is  one  of  paper 
folded  so  as  to  make  twelve  leaves  to  a  sheet  ;  and  this 
last  is  therefore  much  handier  and  every  way  better  for 
boy  use,  —  at  least,  I  think  so.  Then  it  was  bound  in 
full  calf  —  very  suspiciously  like  a  dictionary,  and  like  — 
well,  I  must  say  it  —  like  the  Bible.  I  don't  mean,  of 
course,  to  breathe  one  word  against  that  venerable  vol- 
ume ;  but  then,  you  know,  when  a  fellow  wants  a  good 
Sunday  book,  and  knows  just  where  the  Bible  is  kept, 

219 


220  ABOUT  OLD  STORY-TELLERS. 

and  has  read  it  ever  so   often,  he  doesn't  want  what 
looks  too  much  Hke  it. 

However,  there  I  was  with  the  big  book  on  my  knee ; 
and  there  were  pictures  in  it.  These  were  stunning. 
There  was  a  picture  of  a  man  with  a  great  pack  on  his 
back,  doing  his  best  to  get  out  of  a  huge  bog  ;  and 
there  were  some  people  standing  by,  who  didn't  seem 
to  help  him  much. 

There  was  a  picture  of  a  prodigious  giant,  —  fully  as 
large  as  that  in  Jack  and  the  Beanstalk  story,  —  who 
was  leading  off  two  little  men,  — xDne  of  whom  looked 
like  the  man  that  wore  the  big  pack,  and  was  near  sink- 
ing in  the  bog.  Then  there  was  a  splendid  picture  of 
this  same  little  man  walking  up  with  all  the  pluck  in 
the  world,  through  a  path,  beside  which  were  seated 
two  old  giants,  who  —  judging  from  the  bones  which 
lay  scattered  around  their  seats  —  seemed  to  have  been 
amusing  themselves  by  eating  up  just  such  little  men  as 
the  plucky  one,  who  came  marching  up  between  them 
so  bravely. 

In  short,  the  pictures  carried  the  day ;  and  though  it 
seemed  droll  Sunday  work,  I  wanted  amazingly  to  find 
out  how  this  plucky  little  man  got  through  with  his  bogs 
and  giants. 
•    So  I  set  to. 

Christian  was  the  man's  name,  and  he  had  a  family. 
But  he  became  pretty  well  satisfied  that  he  was  living  in 
a  city  that  would  certainly  be  destroyed  ;  and  was  very 
much  troubled  about  it,  and  couldn't  sleep  at  night,  nor 
let  his  family  sleep. 

So  it  happened  that  this  Christian,  after  getting  some 
directions  from  a  man  called  Evangelist,  "put  out  "  one 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A    NOVEL.  221 

day,  with  his  pack  upon  his  back,  and  left  his  wife  and 
children. 

They  did  indeed  run  out  after  him  so  soon  as  they 
saw  that  he  was  fairly  set  off,  and  called  to  him  very 
piteously  and  loudly,  —  which  is  not  surprising,  if  he 
was  a  man  of  fair  honesty  ;  but  he  —  strangely  enough, 
I  think  —  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  and  cried  out, — 
"  Life,  life ! "  I  didn't,  in  fact,  at  all  Hke  the  manner 
in  which  the  book  makes  him  leave  his  family  behind 
him.  His  course  may  have  been  well  enough  ;  but  why 
shouldn't  he  have  taken  them  along  with  him,  instead 
of  leaving  his  children  to  be  looked  after  by  that  fellow 
Great-Hear —     But  I  mustn't  tell  the  story  in  advance. 

His  going  off  in  this  way  made  a  great  deal  of  noise 
in  the  neighborhood  ;  and  a  Mr.  Pliable,  who  was  some- 
thing of  a  gossip,  went  out  crossways  to  meet  Christian, 
and  have  a  chat  with  him,  and  was  won  over  to  keep 
by  him,  until  they  both  tumbled  into  that  great  bog  I 
spoke  of.  After  floundering  in  this  for  a  while,  —  Plia- 
ble abusing  Christian  for  getting  him  in  such  a  scrape, 
—  they  both  crawled  out.  Pliable  struck  back,  straight 
for  home. 

Christian  kept  on,  —  very  wearily,  with  all  that  mire 
upon  him  in  addition  to  his  pack.  A  Mr.  Worldly-Wise- 
man met  him  on  the  road.  He  was  a  pompous  man, 
and  had  the  air  of  knowing  all  that  it  was  needful  for 
anybody  to  know,  and  of  having  a  well-filled  purse 
besides. 

When  he  heard  that  Christian  x^az  travelling  to  the 
Celestial  City,  he  said,  **  Pooh,  nonsense  !  "  and  advised 
him  to  go  across  to  the  town  of  Morality^  where  he 
himself   had  a  snug  house,  which  he  sometimes  occu- 


222  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

pied.  My  impression  is  that  he  offered  to  rent  it  to 
him  at  a  low  rate.  He  told  Christian,  moreover,  that 
Squire  Legality,  who  lived  there  also,  would  take  off 
his  pack  for  him,  —  which,  unlike  most  travellers,  he 
was  very  anxious  to  be  rid  of  :  indeed,  if  he  had  valued 
it  very  highly,  I  think  Mr.  Legality  would  have  taken  it 
off  all  the  same  —  if  he  had  fallen  in  his  way. 

Christian  does  make  a  side-start  on  the  Morality-road  ; 
but  Evangelist  sees  him  before  he  has  gone  far,  and 
puts  him  into  the  path  he  first  chose.  This  takes  him 
through  a  wicket, — where  the  keeper  is  very  kind, — 
and  brings  him  after  a  while  to  a  place  called  the  Inter- 
preter's house,  where  he  sees  many  wonderful  things,  — 
in  visions,  as  it  were.  Among  the  rest,  two  boys  named 
Patience  and  Passion,  whom  I  haven't  forgotten  to  this 
day.  Patience  took  things  very  quietly,  and  had  a  good, 
honest,  contented  look; — while  Passion,  with  heaps  of 
money,  dashed  it  all  abroad  in  a  very  reckless  way. 

He  sees,  too,  here,  —  or  thinks  he  sees  (though  it  is 
hard  to  tell  which  of  the  two  it  is),  a  man  shut  up  in  a 
cage  of  despair,  and  who  has  a  very  sad  time  of  it,  beat- 
ing against  the  bars  of  his  den. 

There  was  a  house  called  Beautiful  on  his  way,  where 
he  was  received  by  two  excellent  persons,  —  Discretion 
and  Charity.  They  took  Christian  to  task,  however,  for 
havmg  set  off  without  his  wife  and  family  ;  and  his  ex- 
cuses were  not  of  the  best,  I  thought.  However,  they 
treated  him  well,  and  had  him  up  in  the  morning  to  the 
top  of  the  house,  from  which  they  pointed  out  to  him 
the  Delectable  Mountains,  that  lay  straight  in  his  path. 
There  couldn't  be  a  finer  country  than  that  seemed  to 
be,  or  than  that  proved  to  be,  when  he  reached  it  at 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A   NO  VET. 


223 


last,  1  don't  think  there  was  any  thing  in  the  book 
more  enjoyable  than  that  stoppage  in  the  Delectable 
country ;  the  very  thought  of  it  for  years  after  brought 
up  the  loveliest  images  of  fountains  and  sweetly-flowing 
streams,  and  vineyards,  and  the  most  luscious  of  fruits. 


Passion  and   Patience. 


I  wondered  why  Christian  did  not  stop  there  altogether. 
But  it  seemed  to  be  a  road  whereon  every  one  must 
travel  —  when  once  they  had  set  foot  upon  it,  —  either 
in  a  wrong  direction  or  a  right  one. 

Vanity  Fair  was  an  extraordinary  place  he  had  to  pass 


224  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

through,  with  a  sort  of  world's  exhibition  always  going 
on  in  it, — with  a  French  Row,  and  an  Italian  Row,  and 
a  British  Row  :  I  am  sure  there  would  have  been  an 
American  Row  if  the  author  had  known  as  much  of  our 
people  as  of  the  rest  of  Vanity  Fair. 

As  for  the  city,  it  was  not  very  unlike  New  York  : 
the  judges  were  worse,  I  think;  and  Faithful,  —  who 
was  the  best  of  men  (at  least,  he  seemed  so),  gets  exe- 
cuted there. 

Christian  made  good  speed  out  of  it  —  so  soon  as  he 
could. 

I  can't  undertake  to  give  the  full  order  of  his  travel ; 
but  I  know  he  met  a  great  monster,  Apollyon,  some- 
where, a  prodigious  creature  with  scales,  equal  to  any 
thing  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  He  strode  wide  across 
the  way  on  which  Christian  was  making  his  pilgrimage, 
and  gave  fight  to  him.  My  heart  stood  in  my  mouth  at 
the  first  reading  of  this  battle.  Would  Christian  win  ? 
It  was  "  nip  and  tuck  "  with  them  for  a  long  time,  and 
I  was  not  sure  how  it  could  come  out.  But  at  last  Chris- 
tian gave  this  Apollyon  a  good  punch  under  the  fifth 
rib,  and  the  dragon  flew  away 

There  was  a  Giant  Despair  somewhere,  who  lived  in 
Doubting  Castle,  in  sight  from  the  road.  Christian  was 
warned  against  him  (I  think  he  was  in  company  with 
poor  Faithful  at  this  time),  and  they  somehow  strayed 
into  his  territory,  and  fell  asleep. 

This  made  one's  heart  beat.  What  if  the  giant  should 
take  a  walk  in  their  direction  ! 

Why  don't  they  wake  up  t  —  we  thought.  But  they 
slept,  and  slept.  And  the  giant  did  come  that  way,  and 
haled  them  into  his  underground  dungeons.  I  think  I 
gave  Christian  up  at  this  pass. 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A   NOVEL.  225 

This  giant  had  a  wife  called  Diffidence,  —  which 
seemed  a  very  funny  name  for  a  woman  who  advised 
the  giant  —  after  they  had  gone  to  bed  —  to  give  Chris- 
tian and  Faithful  a  good  sound  beating  every  morning 
after  breakfast. 

He  did  give  them  a  beating,  and  a  good  many  of 
them  ;  and  Christian  would  have  been  murdered  out- 
right if  he  had  not  bethought  himself  of  a  key  he  had 

—  all  the  while  —  in  his  own  bosom,  and  which  would 
unlock  any  door  in  all  Doubting  Castle. 

It  was  very  stupid  in  him  not  to  have  thought  of  the 
key  before  ;  but  he  didn't. 

However,  he  used  it  at  last,  —  unlocked  the  dungeon 
door,  —  helped  up  poor  Faithful,  — went  along  the  stairs 

—  very  quietly,  —  tried  another  lock,  —  opened  that 
(what  if  the  giant  should  hear !),  and  it  grated  fearfully ; 
unlocked  another  and  another,  and  at  last  they  were  safe 
outside  once  more,  and  made  their  way  back  to  the  true 
path  which  they  had  wandered  from.  They  set  up  a 
column  of  some  sort  thereabout,  —  so  that  other  people 
shouldn't  get  into  the  grounds  of  Doubting  Castle  again 
for  want  of  warning.  This  was  very  good  of  them  ;  but 
I  suspect  it  did  not  serve  much  purpose.  Almost  every- 
body stops  to  see  Doubting  Castle,  and  take  the  risk  of 
being  caught  by  Giant  Despair. 

Well,  this  plucky,  earnest  Christian  went  on,  —  meet- 
ing with  hobgoblins,  — worrying  terribly  in  a  certain  Val- 
ley of  Humiliation, — trembling  as  he  walked  between 
two  great  monsters  called  Pope  and  Pagan  (he  was  fool- 
ish for  that,  —  since  these  giants  had  their  teeth  drawn, 
or  had  worn  off  the  sharp  edges  of  them  with  long  years 
of  mumbling). 


226 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


He  enjoys  himself  hugely  in  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains —  (I  was  sure  he  would),  and  the  hospitable 
shepherds   entertain  him  very  kindly :    he  reaches  the 


Escape  from    Doubting  Castie. 


worst  in  the  valley  of  the  waters  of  Death,  but  comes 
out  all  right  at  last  by.  the  shores  of  the  river  of  Life, 
and  passes  on  into  the  streets  of  the  Celestial  City. 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A   NOVEL,  22/ 


Greai'Eeari. 

Don't  forget  that  it  was  a  Sunday  on  which  I  first 
read  this  book,  and  dreamed  after  it  —  of  Apollyon 
(whom  I  imagined  a  monster  bat,  with  wings  ten  feet 
long,  and  flapping  them  with  a  horrible,  flesh-y  sound) 
—  also,  of  Giant  Despair  and  his  deep  dungeon.  {If 
Christian  had  happened  to  forget  the  key !) 

I  don't  think  I  dreamed  of  old  Worldly-Wiseman,  or 
Pliable,  or  Legality,  or  Pick-thank.  These  are  humble, 
riff-raff  characters  (to  boys),  compared  with  Apollyon. 
But  the  day  will  come  when  grown  boys  will  reckon 
them  worse  monsters  than  even  Apollyon,  —  by  a  great 
deal.     I  know  I  do. 

There  was  a  second  part  to  this  story,  —  though  both 
parts  were  bound  in  one  within  the  leather  covers  l^told 
you  of.  It  was  too  much  together  for  one  day's  read- 
ing ;  but  I  came  to  it  all  afterward. 

The  second  part  tells  the  story  of  Christian's  wife 
and  children.  The  good  woman  bewailed  her  husband, 
and  bethought  herself  sorrily  if  she  had  been  always  to 
him  what  she  should  have  been.  She  didn't  for  a 
moment  accuse  him  for  not  taking  her  with  him  ;  it 
appears  now  indeed  —  as  if  the  author  of  the  book  had 
thought  better  of  it  —  that  poor  Christian  did  urge  and 
urge,  over  and  over,  that  wife  and  children  should  to- 
gether set  off ;  and  that  he  did  not  put  his  fingers  in  his 
ears  in  that  selfish  way  until  all  hope  seemed  gone. 

Of  course  it  had  made  much  stir  in  their  town,  that 
Christian  should  have  gone  off  in  that  manner ;  and 
there  were  all  kinds  of  rumors  as  to  what  had  happened 


223  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

to  him,  and  many  reports  of  his  adventures  ;  there  were 
those  even  who  undertook  to  say  where  he  actually  was 
at  present,  and  what  sort  of  robes  he  was  wearing,  &c. 
As  if  they  knew  ! 

But  Christiana  —  that  was  the  name  of  Christian's 
wife  —  did  not  cease  to  vex  herself ;  and  after  much 
thinking,  determined  to  set  off  on  the  same  journey  her 
good  husband  (she  thought  him  good  now  that  he  was 
gone)  had  taken  the  year  (it  may  have  been  two  years) 
before. 

When  the  packing  began,  and  the  news  spread,  you 
may  be  sure  there  was  a  new  stir  in  the  town  :  the 
gossips  had  a  great  feast  in  talking  of  it ;  and  many  of 
them  came  to  reason  with  Christiana,  —  and  to  see  what 
wardrobe  she  might  be  carrying ;  and  to  bid  her  an 
affectionate  good-by,  and  see  what  hat  she  might  be 
wearing  on  the  journey. 

One  charmmg  young  person,  whose  name  was  Mercy, 
and  who  was  no  gossip  at  all,  and  never  knew  how 
many  flounces  anybody  wore  to  their  skirts,  or  what 
they  cost, — determmed  to  go  with  Christiana.  Chris- 
tiana could  not  have  had  a  better  companion. 

So  they  set  off  —  children  and  all  —  this  time.  The 
Slough  of  Despond  (being  the  bog  spoken  of)  was  still 
there,  and  in  bad  condition.  The  king  of  that  country 
had  indeed  given  orders  to  mend  this  slough  ;  and  it 
was  said  thousands  of  loads  of  waste  material  had  been 
dumped  there, — for  which  the  bills  had  been  paid, — 
still  there  was  no  sign  of  mending,  and  it  continued  as 
grievous  and  plaguing  as  if  it  had  been  a  highway  of  a 
New-England  town  with  the  regularly  elected  select- 
men puttering  around  it. 


I/OIV  A    TINKER    WROTE  A    NOVEL.  229 

But  Mercy  guides  them  through  safely  ;  and  they  go 
in  high  spirits  through  the  first  wicket,  and  reach  in 
good  time  the  Interpreter's  house. 

They  see  many  things  here  —  by  reason,  I  suppose,  of 
there  being  women  of  the  party  —  which  even  Christian 
did  not  see ;  amongst  others,  —  a  man  raking  everlast- 
ingly in  a  muck-heap,  and  never  looking  up.  He  was 
said  to  be  a  kind  of  stock-broker. 

Great-Heart,  the  real  hero  of  this  second  journey, 
takes  them  in  charge  to  go  on  to  the  House  Beautiful, 
and  wards  off  a  great  many  dangers  from  them  on  the 
way,  —  putting  to  death  on  the  road  a  stout  man  by  the 
name  of  Grim,  who  gave  a  great  fright  to  Christiana's 
boys.  Indeed,  he  showed  such  valor  that  the  women 
entreated  —  Mercy  especially  —  that  he  should  keep 
by  them  altogether.  He  seems  to  have  done  so ;  at 
least,  he  was  always  near  when  there  was  any  fighting 
to  be  done. 

There  was  a  dapper  little  lawyer  called  Brisk,  who  in- 
troduced himself  to  the  party  at  the  House  Beautiful, — 
he  being  a  temporary  boarder  like  themselves.  He  was 
a  fine-spoken  man,  though  a  little  airy.  He  greatly  ad- 
mired Mercy's  housekeeping  ways  with  her  needle.  He 
asks  her  how  much  she  could  earn  at  it } 

Aha,  Lawyer  Brisk !  But  she  wouldn't  listen  to  his 
love-making  ;  and  I  was  very  glad  when  she  said  **  No  " 
to  him. 

If,  indeed,  it  had  been  Great-Heart ! 

One  of  Christiana's  boys  fell  sick  hereabouts  with 
gripes,  —  from  eating  apples  that  fell  from  over  the  wall 
of  Beelzebub's  garden  (I  dare  say  Matthew  shook  them 
off  himself).     He  is  so  poorly  that  they  call  in  a  Doctor 


230  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

Skill,  who  has  a  large  practice,  and  puts  up  pills  which 
give  the  go-by  very  quickly  to  Beelzebub's  apples. 

As  they  go  on,  Great-Heart  kindly  shows  the  boys 
where  their  father  Christian  fought  with  Apollyon  ;  and 
he  warns  them  all  in  the  Valley  of  Humiliation  to  keep 
close  by  him.  And  it  was  extraordinary  how  the  phan- 
toms and  monsters  that  threatened  and  growled,  van- 
ished when  Great-Heart  marched  straight  upon  them 
without  blinking.  Lions,  for  instance,  whose  great  feet 
the  boys  can  hear  pattering  up  over  the  grass  after  them 
in  the  dark,  —  when  once  they  stand  and  face  them, 
with  Great-Heart  close  by,  —  turn,  and  are  heard  no 
more. 

It's  not  so,  however,  with  giant  Maul :  the  fight  with 
him  was  one  of  the  hardest  in  the  book.  What  a  pic- 
ture there  was  of  it !  I  would  have  liked  to  show  you 
a  copy  of  it ;  but  the  printers  who  control  these  things 
say  such  pictures  cost  immensely,  and  wouldn't  hear 
of  it. 

This  Maul  has  a  huge  club,  which  he  brandishes,  and 
fetches  Great-Heart  a  blow  with  it  that  brings  that 
brave  man  to  his  knee.  Mercy  screamed,  and  thought 
it  had  been  all  up  with  him  ;  and  so  indeed  did  I,  —  at 
the  first  reading.  But  he  gets  upon  his  legs,  and,  after 
long  parrying,  gives  Maul  a  thrust  between  his  ribs  that 
makes  an  end  of  him,  and  puts  the  boys  and  poor  trem- 
bling Christiana  in  good  case  once  more. 

I  forget  now  where,  —  but  at  one  point  they  came  up 
with  old  Honesty,  —  one  of  the  very  best  fellows  in  all 
the  book.  It  is  so  refreshing  to  m-eet  with  a  new  char- 
acter !  The  only  thing  I  disliked  about  him  was  his 
putting  in  a  favoring  word  when  somebody  hinted  that 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A   NOVEL.  23 1 

Mercy  should  marry  Matthew,  —  the  boy  who  was  made 
sick  with  eating  Beelzebub's  apples.  I  never  liked  this. 
She  was  too  fine  a  woman.  Yet  such  young  fellows 
somehow  always  get  the  fine  women,  and  don't  get  — 
over  eating  Beelzebub's  apples. 

When  the  party  came  up  to  the  stile  that  led  over  into 
the  grounds  of  Doubting  Castle,  Great-Heart  proposed 
to  go  over  and  call  out  giant  Despair,  and  make  an  end 
of  him. 

At  this  point  I  remember  my  heart  beat  pit-a-pat  again. 
Would  he  do  it }  Would  the  giant  come  out  1  Would 
Great-Heart  have  the  better  of  him  ?  What  if  the  giant 
should  throw  a  rock  out  of  the  windows  upon  him  } 
Then  there  were  nets  in  those  grounds,  and  pitfalls  ; 
and  Mrs.  Diffidence  with  her  hot  water  and  spits. 

However,  Great-Heart  did  go  ;  and  did  call  him  out ; 
and  did  slay  giant  Despair,  —  as  much  as  such  a  char- 
acter can  be  slain.  That  Doubting  Castle  was  pulled 
down  then  and  there  ;  but  there  has  been  a  new  one 
built,  with  modern  improvements.  The  gentlemen  who 
occupy  it  —  philosophers  among  them  —  don't  waylay 
strangers  in  the  old  manner :  in  fact,  they  give  them 
strong,  juicy  meats  to  eat,  and  set  them  on  the  road 
again,  in  high  spirits,  —  back  to  the  town  of  Morality. 
There  have  been  stories,  however,  that  some  of  the 
younger  dwellers  in  Doubting  Castle,  have,  in  a  fit  of 
passion,  brained  an  innocent  visitor  or  two,  with  some 
of  the  old  bones  lying  about  the  premises. 

They  push  on  after  this  without  very  great  adven- 
tures. They  have  a  nice  time  at  those  dear  Delectable 
Mountains,  and  through  a  spy-glass  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  Celestial  City.  Some  think  they  see  it,  and  some 
think  they  don't. 


232  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

They  don't  mind  the  dangers  of  the  Enchanted 
Ground  much.  Mistress  Bubble  with  her  fawning  and 
fine  jewels,  and  offer  of  soirees  (I  presume  she  gave 
amateur  theatric  shows),  did  not  wheedle  them  at  all. 

They  came  to  Beulah  at  last,  and  to  the  river  brink,  — 
and  sang  as  they  looked,  — 

"  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green." 

Ah,  but  that  Great-Heart  was  a  noble  fellow !  Mercy 
ought  to  have  married  him;  but  it  didn't  end  so.  Great- 
Heart  never  married. 

Well,  that  story  in  the  leathern  covers,  and  as  big  as 
a  Bible,  has  been  printed  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  and 
has  been  translated  into  all  the  languages  of  Europe. 
And  it  was  written  by  a  travelling  tinker.  Think  of 
that ! 

John  Bunyan. 

John  Bunyan  was  his  name ;  and  he  was  born  in  a 
house  built  of  timber  and  clay  (which  was  standing  not 
many  years  ago),  in  the  little  village  of  Elstow,  near  to 
Bedford,  England. 

Bedfordshire  is  a  beautiful  county :  there  are  fine 
farms  and  great  houses,  and  beautiful  parks  in  it ;  but 
this  man,  John  Bunyan,  was  the  son  of  a  travelling 
tinker,  and  was  born  there  only  a  few  years  after  the 
pilgrims  landed  from  the  Mayflower  on  Plymouth  Rock. 
He  says  of  himself  that  he  was  a  wild  lad,  swearing 
dreadfully,  going  about  with  his  father  to  tinker  broken 
tea-pots,  lying  under  hedges,  having  narrow  escapes 
from   death  —  once,   falling   into    the    river    Ouse,  and 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A   NOVEL. 


233 


another  time  handling  an   adder,  and  pulHng  out  his 
fangs  with  his  fingers. 

But  he  fell  in  with  Puritan  preachers,  who  "  waked 
his  conscience  ; "  for  he  lived  just  in  the  heart  of  those 
times  which  are  described  in  Walter  Scott's  novel  of 
**  Woodstock,"  and  in  that  other  novel  of  **  Peveril  of 


the  Peak ; "  and  he  didn't  think  much  of  episcopacy  or 
bishops  ;  and  at  last  he  took  to  preaching  himself,  — 
having  left  off  all  his  evil  courses. 

He  married  too,  and  had  four  children,  —  one  of  them, 
poor  Mary  Bunyan,  blind  from  her  birth.  Bunyan  loved 
this  girl  greatly.  I  think  when  he  wrote  of  Mercy,  — 
he  thought  of  Mary  Bunyan. 


234 


ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 


He  fought  in  the  civil  wars  under  Cromwell,  and  it  is 
possible  enough  that  he  may  have  seen  Charles  the 
First  go  out  to  execution.  Maybe  he  was  one  of  those 
crazy  fellows  who  came  to  Ditchley  (in  Scott's  novel) 
to  help  capture  the  runaway,  Charles  the  Second,  who 
was  gallivanting  in  that  time  in  the  household  of  old 
Sir  Arthur  Lee.     He  throve  while  the  Commonwealth 


Bedford  Jail. 


lasted ;  but  when  Charles  the  Second  was  called  back 
to  the  throne  in  1660  (John  Bunyan  being  then  thirty- 
two  years  old),  it  was  a  hard  time  for  Puritans,  and 
worst  of  all  for  such  Puritan  of  Puritans  as  the  Puritan 
preacher,  —  Bunyan. 

They  tried  him  for  holding  disorderly  religious  meet- 
ings ;  and  he  put  a  brave  face  on  it,  and  contested  his 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A   NOVEL.  235 

right ;  but  this  only  made  the  matter  worse  for  him.  and 
they  condemned  him  to  perpetual  banishment.  Some- 
how, this  judgment  was  changed  in  such  a  way,  that 
Bunyan,  in  place  of  being  shipped  to  Holland  or  Amer- 
ica (where  he  would  have  found  a  parish),  was  clapped 
into  Bedford  Jail,  where  he  lay  (he  tells  us)  ''twelve 
entire  years."  He  had  no  book  there  but  the  Bible  and 
Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs.  He  made  tag-lace  to  support 
his  family,  the  while  he  was  in  jail,  and  bemoaned  very 
much  the  possible  fate  of  his  poor  blind  daughter 
Mary. 

While  he  was  living  his  prison  life,  country  people 
in  England  were  reading  the  newly  printed  book  by 
Isaac  Walton,  called  the  Complete  Angler ;  and  during 
the  same  period  of  time,  John  Milton  published  his 
Paradise  Lost ;  and  in  that  Bedford  Jail,  in  those  same 
years,  John  Bunyan  wrote  the  story  I  have  told  you  of, 
called  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 

He  came  out  of  jail  afterwards,  — a  good  two  hundred 
years  ago  to-day,  —  and  took  to  preaching  again.  But 
he  preached  no  sermon  that  was  heard  so  widely,  or 
ever  will  be,  as  his  preachments  in  the  Pilgrim's 
Progress. 

He  went  on  some  errand  of  charity  in  his  sixtieth 
year,  and  took  a  fever,  and  died  in  1688.  It  was  the 
very  year  in  which  the  orthodox  people  of  England  had 
set  on  foot  the  revolution  which  turned  out  the  Popish 
King  James  the  Second,  and  brought  in  the  Protestant 
William  and  Mary.  Poor  John  Bunyan  would  have 
seen  better  times  if  he  had  lived  in  their  day,  and  better 
yet  if  he  had  lived  in  ours,  and  written  in  the  magazines 
as  well  as  he  wrote  about  Great-Heart. 


236  ABOUT  OLD   STORY-TELLERS. 

Live  as  long  as  you  may,  you  can  never  outlive  the 
people  that  he  set  up  in  his  story. 

Messrs.  Legality,  and  Cheat,  and  Love-lust,  and 
Carnal-mind,  we  meet  every  day  in  society.  Every  boy 
and  girl  of  you  all  will  go  by  and  by — slump  —  into 
some  Slough  of  Despond  ;  and  God  help  you,  if  the  pack 
you  carry  into  it  is  big !  Always,  and  at  all  times,  there 
must  be  thwacking  at  dragons  in  our  own  valleys  of 
humiliation  ;  and  if  the  teeth  of  giant  Pope  are  pulled, 
giant  Despair  —  whatever  Great-Heart  may  have  done 
—  will  be  sure  to  catch  us  some  day  in  Doubting  Castle, 
or  somewhere  else. 

In  fact,  I  don't  much  believe  that  Great-Heart  did 
kill  him  ;  and  think  —  to  that  extent  —  the  work  is 
fictitious. 

Giant  Despair  lives,  you  may  be  sure  of  it,  —  perhaps 
not  in  that  same  old  Doubting  Castle,  which  was  prob- 
ably pulled  down.  But  he  has  a  great  many  fine  resi- 
dences—  in  the  city,  and  in  the  country  too. 

And  he  has  a  new  wife ;  and  her  name  is  not  Diffi- 
dence now  —  oh,  no  !  but  it  is  sometimes  Dame  Swag- 
ger, and  sometimes  Miss  Spending,  and  sometimes 
Mrs.   Dividends,  and  sometimes  Lady  Heartless. 

As  for  that  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death, — who 
that  has  lived  since  Bunyan  died,  or  who  that  shall  live 
henceforth,  may  escape  its  bewilderments  and  its  ter- 
rors .''  The  poor  tinker  and  preacher,  —  the  zealous 
writer  who  made  his  words  cleave  like  sharp  knives, 
sleeps  now  quietly  (to  all  seeming)  in  a  grave  on  Bun- 
hill  Fields.  And  we  shall  have  our  resting-places 
marked  out  too,  before  many  more  crops  of  autumn 
leaves  shall  fall  to  the  ground ;  but  evermore,  the  path 


HOW  A    TINKER    WROTE  A   NOVEL.         237 

to  such  resting-place,  for  such  as  he,  and  for  such  as 
we,  must  lie  straight  through  the  awful  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death. 

It  would  be  a  sad  story  if   there  were   no  Celestial 
City. 


Bunyan's  Tomb. 


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